


Cold as the Night

by whatcolourmyeyes



Series: So late so soon [1]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Minor Angst, Mostly Fluff, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-06
Updated: 2014-06-07
Packaged: 2018-01-14 17:35:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 27,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1275076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatcolourmyeyes/pseuds/whatcolourmyeyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Darcy has been sent with Jane to Asgard as her personal handmaiden... but her presence there might have more purpose than she knows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> I was trying to work on an English essay, and then this happened. Note: some swearing, if that bothers you. Feel free to leave reviews in the comments! They keep me going :)  
> Final lines borrowed from "I Bet You Look Good on the Dancefloor" by the Arctic Monkeys.

He’s glaring at her again. Jane maintains that Darcy is imagining things, but every time she sneaks a peek at the guest seated on her left, his eyes meet hers directly, unflinching. She freezes as he openly trails his eyes over her. She can feel the blood rushing to her already pink cheeks, and she wishes, not for the first time this night, that she could be back into New Mexico, and not on another planet in the company of ridiculously attractive aliens – one alien in particular, whose gaze is still trained on her. Embarrassed, she finally gives up on the staring contest, and looks down at her hands, fingers awkwardly tangled in her lap. She has to stifle a gasp as the previously blue fabric of her dress fades to a deep emerald green. Darcy’s eyes jump back to him, and he cocks an eyebrow expectantly. _Your move_ , the gesture seems to say.

“Darce,” Jane whispers, elbowing Darcy’s side. “You’re spacing out.”

 _Spacing out? Good one, Jane. Oh, shit. Right. Frigga is talking to me. God – can I still say that? Focus, Darce – it’s my first dinner in Asgard and I’m already messing up. Let’s forget about Mr. Tall, Dark and Scary. Look cool, Lewis, look cool._ Darcy turns to face the head of the table, and focuses her attention on Frigga. After stumbling her way through a passable response about how she finds Asgard, she subtly mouths a ‘thank you’ to Jane, and determines that from this point on, she will keep her eyes glued to her plate, and not speak unless spoken to.

And there will be absolutely _no_ staring at any Asgardians, regardless of how green their eyes are, or how cut their cheekbones look. No. Staring. Whatsoever.

Resolutely eating a pile of what look like peas one by one, Darcy practically jumps in her seat when she hears a low voice in her ear.

“Miss Lewis.” When she turns to her left, she sees that he is intently focused on his goblet of mead. She could have sworn that he was whispering to her… “Oh, come now, Miss Lewis, do be a little creative.” This time she is certain that it was him, but his lips haven’t moved an inch. _Is he… in my head?_ “So, not quite so daft… for a Midgardian.”

_Dude, get out! This is my mind! Go… find your own or something._

“But this is so fun.” Darcy’s given up at this point.

 _Fine. So, how does this work - can you hear everything I’m thinking?_  she asks. His attention is now fully on her, and Darcy tries to focus on the tapestry to the right of his head. _No checking out the hot stranger, Darce._ She hears his low laugh. _Aw, shit. Well, clearly you can._ She is surprised by how carefree his laugh sounds; he had spent the whole night looking sullen and withdrawn, not talking to anyone unless spoken to. No one else seems to have made much of an effort to talk to him either, asides from Thor and Frigga, but he has been ignoring both of them.

Jane laughs musically at something that Thor has whispered in her ear and Frigga smiles warmly. Darcy swallows a lump in her throat, wishing that she could fit in as effortlessly as Jane. She feels completely out of place in her Asgardian dress, sitting in a dining hall drinking from goblets made from solid gold, and eating with shining silverware. Thor had invited her along as Jane’s ‘handmaiden,’ but the title is honorary more than anything else. She has even less experience with this world’s clothing than Jane, so she can hardly help her with putting on or removing her robes – _Not that Jane would need any help with the latter… she has Thor for that_ (this garners another laugh from her companion, and Darcy wishes she had a better filter; she’s bad enough when it comes to what she says out loud, but here, she has absolutely no control over what he can or cannot hear). Most of the time she feels like an officially issued third wheel.

Director Fury had said that they needed two envoys to send to Asgard, and that was it. Goodbye, Puente Antiguo, hello, Asgard. Fury was pretty close-lipped about why, exactly, but then again, Darcy’s basically at Level 1 clearance, so she’s lucky if she hears about anything before it’s finally given the go-ahead and shown on the news. Sometimes, when she’s lucky, Tasha takes pity on her and ‘accidentally’ lets slip a few details. Darcy still isn’t sure whether she was chosen to accompany Jane out of desperation or pity on Fury’s part. Maybe a combination of both.

“Why would they send two of you? One Midgardian is enough. To send two is just… pointless.”

_Alright, first of all, that’s just rude, and secondly, the fact that you were listening in on all of that is freaking me out. Just a little._

“Well, if you would prefer, we _could_ do this in the open,” he murmurs, this time out loud. With his weird almost-British accent and his low voice, he manages to make the sentence sound much dirtier than it is, and the slight twinkle in his eye would suggest that he is not entirely unaware of that. Darcy clears her throat, and tries to ignore the way his steady gaze is making her feel all hot and bothered.

“If you’re gonna talk to me, then I figure I should ask: why did you screw with my dress?”

“I didn’t ‘screw’ with anything,” he answers. “I simply… improved it.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not sure I should be taking fashion advice from Sir Metal and Leather. Isn’t it hot in there?”

“Would you prefer that I take it off?” Darcy is almost taken-aback by his directness; she’s used to the gentle ‘courting’ of Thor, though it’s not like she isn’t familiar with some classic earthling-style flirting.

“Naw, I like the view... Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I like the view,” he repeats with a smirk.

Darcy puzzles over the expression on his face, unconsciously biting her lip.

“Green suits you,” he says abruptly. Darcy looks around awkwardly, not sure how to respond. The guy across the table – Fandral? – leans over and smiles reassuringly at Darcy.

“If he’s being rude, don’t take what he says too seriously – he is the God of Lies, after all.”

Darcy’s eyes widen comically. “Wait, wha-”

She is interrupted by a dull roar as every person in the banquet hall stands up to listen to the woman at the head of the table. Frigga dismisses her guests, wishing them a good evening, and when Darcy looks to her left once more, her conversational partner has already left. _Disappeared, more like._

“I see you were talking to Loki,” Jane says brightly. Too brightly, if you ask Darcy.

“Don’t remind me,” she groans. “And to think that I almost liked the guy.” _Classic move, Darce. You just_ had _to flirt with the one bad boy in the room._ The _bad boy of all time, in fact. Why couldn’t you have gone with that Fandral guy?_ “Dammit, Jane, where the hell is the mini-bar around here?”

\--

_Stop making the eyes at me_

_I'll stop making the eyes at you_

_And what it is that surprises me_

_is that I don't really want you to_


	2. Mischief and Minibars

Jane and Thor have already left by now, and Darcy is sitting alone at the Asgardian equivalent to a bar, regretting the two or three mugs of mead – _Not quite sure how many it’s been_ – that Jane’s boyfriend had so enthusiastically recommended. A few stragglers remain in the banquet hall, linking arms and swaying back and forth as they sing slow versions of bawdy songs in Norse; their mismatched, off-key harmonies blend together, sounding like a Tim Burton-esque funeral march.

Her head is pounding, and Darcy feels a little woozy as she looks down at her slightly distorted reflection in the too, too shiny bar top. _I know that these Asgardians are blessed with godlike looks, but seriously, does everything here have to serve as a makeshift mirror?_

It seems silly, being homesick after under a day, but all she wants right now is to cuddle up on her ratty earthling couch and watch bad re-runs while eating stale popcorn in her pajamas, forgetting her humiliating foray into accidental flirtation with Nordic Gods. Something Thor and Jane aren’t going to let Darcy live down. They had immediately noticed her talking to Loki, and had leaped at the opportunity to overcome Mrs. Lewis in the category of How to Embarrass Darcy in Under Ten Seconds.

Thor had been exorbitantly happy, pulling her in for one of his bone-crushing bear hugs (and she could have sworn she heard the words ‘wedding bells’ uttered), and Jane had looked almost… relieved. Darcy had spent enough time with Jane to know when she was lying, and her 100 megawatt smile seemed forced.

_“I see you were talking to Loki!”_

_“Why didn’t you tell me I was sitting beside_ him _?!”_

_“Darce, you’re over-reacting.”_

_“Freaking out about eye sex with a crazy – don’t get me wrong, freakishly attractive – supervillain is not an overreaction!” Oh dear. At this point, the most she can hope for is that the Allfather just didn’t notice her at the banquet. (He’s intimidating – like an older, Norse Director Fury. Speaking of which, what is it with badasses and eye-patches? Is there some secret correlation there that she doesn’t know about?)_

_Darcy really does_ not _want have to explain this all to Fury after being deported back to Earth for hitting on – and then insulting – a highly unpredictable prince/supervillain._

 _“_ Ex _-supervillain, we hope. And I think it’s nice to see Loki finally interacting with someone; he can be so reclusive. Frigga says he spends all his time in the library. He only came today because she begged him to.”_

 _Darcy doesn’t think Jane is_ _in any position to judge someone for retreating into their books, but she smiles at the sudden mental image of Loki as an angsty teen, hiding out in a bedroom covered with edgy band posters._

“Miss Lewis?” _Speak of the devil._     

The familiar low voice is soothing, cutting through the sound of tone-deaf carolers, and Darcy’s sudden view of Loki in full green and gold regalia wipes away any fantasies of him as anything but very, _very_ grown-up. Still, she can’t forget that he is also very, very dangerous; the footage of his stint on Earth may not have adequately picked up on how very well those tight leather pants fit him, but the camera did catch some pretty precious ‘kneel before me or face my wrath’-type moments. _What a charmer._ She’s watched the Stuttgart tape too many times to count, and until she’s nursing a solid hangover, Darcy isn’t up for talking to Mr. God of World Domination and Eye Fuckery.

“Go ’way,” she grumbles half-heartedly. “I’m still two tankards away from living down my embarrassment.”

“Or in two tankards too far,” Loki counters. He smirks, but his tone seems slightly clipped, and Darcy blushes as she realizes that he could probably ( _definitely_ ) hear her entire train of thought. _Shit._

“Is Lord Mischief telling me to tone it down?” Darcy asks, trying to drag his attention away from her intense inner debate. _Never thought I would complain about a guy being interested in my mind…_ “Why? Can’t keep up?”

“Miss Lewis, do not presume that my lack of willingness to participate indicates an inability to do so.”

“So… a translation for the foolish mortal over here: you’re too good for this?”

“I have no desire to play the fool.”

“Of course,” Darcy said sagely. “You aren’t your brother, after all.” _What the hell, if you’re going to sass Loki, better take advantage of that Asgardian liquid courage._

“ _Not_ my brother.” Loki clenches his jaw in a way that should _not_ be sexy.

“Sure, keep telling yourself that,” she drawls. “Because _nobody_ has gotten over being adopted before.”

There is a pregnant pause, and Darcy wishes she could swallow her words.

“You should go.” His tone is cold, his eyes impenetrable, and she flinches before she can help herself. It’s the part of Loki that has always scared her the most: the part of him that acts like he doesn’t care at all.

She tries to stutter out an apology – God, she hates how he makes her stumble over her words like no one else can – but he stops her.

“Do you think that your foolish barbs can hurt me? I, the Liesmith, the Silvertongue, the Trickst-”

Darcy had been trying to get off her stool with as much dignity as she can muster, but the room is still spinning, and she winces as she stubs her toe and falls forward… into the arms of a currently angry god, cutting him off.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, trying to right herself. Loki, however, has a different idea: his hands tighten their hold around her waist, and she sinks back against his chest. Pressed tightly against him, Darcy instinctively nuzzles her head closer into the hollow of his throat, breathing in the smell of ice and mint.

“Loki?”

He clears his throat, but doesn’t move away. “Miss Lewis, you- you should be going to bed.”

“About that...” _Where the hell_ is _my room?_

Loki slides one arm all the way around her waist, and reaches under her knees with the other, suddenly lifting Darcy up. “I’ll take you,” he murmurs. She flushes at the implications of that statement, but Darcy feels surprisingly safe in his embrace, and her head feels clearer now that his arms are around her.

The room stays steady as Loki walks out of the banquet hall and carries Darcy down several winding hallways, finally nudging open the door to her room.

“Agent Lewis?”

Darcy starts.

“Director,” Loki coolly replies, lowering Darcy to her feet.

Loki mock-bows, and grins rakishly at Darcy before promptly disappearing, leaving Darcy to explain the entire situation to Fury. The lights suddenly seem ten times brighter, and she feels like she got hit upside the head by Mew-Mew.

“It’s not what it looked like, I swear...”


	3. The Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This ended up being quite a long chapter… No Loki in this section, but I promise I’ll make up for it in the next part. Enjoy reading, my lovelies :)

“It’s not what it looked like, I swear...”                                  

Fury’s face is impassive, and Darcy waits for the inevitable lecture about fraternizing with the enemy. The (objectively) undeniable hotness of the enemy in question is unlikely to sway Mr. Scary Eye-patch’s opinion of Darcy’s conduct. She stands awkwardly in the doorway, while Fury takes a seat on a white couch in the main foyer. Not to be bothered by frivolous things like cost or space constraints, the Asgardian version of a bedroom has more amenities than Darcy’s old apartment: several mazelike hallways all extend from the central seating area like the ends of a spider web. _And_ of course _the walls are covered in gold leaf… because you never know when you need another shiny surface in your home!_ Two main corridors going off in opposite directions lead to separate bedrooms, one of which is Darcy’s. Jane, Darcy knows, is supposedly rooming in the other room, though she doubts that’s actually happening while Thor is living under the same roof.

“Asgard’s quite a place, huh?” she stalls when Fury does nothing to fill the silence. “Enjoy your ride on the Bifrost? The mead makes it worth it.”

“I’m not here to make small talk, Lewis,” Fury grumbles, though he looks almost amused. It’s his usual response to Darcy: an expression somewhere between a discreet smile and someone grimacing after swallowing a slice of lemon.

“Great. Well, maybe you can explain why you _are_ here. In my room. On Asgard,” she replies conversationally, crossing her arms and tapping her foot. Fury sighs.

“The announcement of the engagement is tomorrow.”

“Yeah, that’s not really what I was asking.”

Darcy cocks an eyebrow, and he mumbles something about Jane letting him in. It is a talent of which Darcy is particularly proud: her singular ability to render Director Fury sheepish (or as close to it as he can be).

“Why the fuck are you _here_ , though?” Darcy winces at her own words; she is _really_ regretting all that Asgardian alcohol. “Mr. Director, sir,” she adds hurriedly.

“I need to talk to you about Loki.” She can feel the blood rushing to her cheeks. (A side-effect of the alcohol, surely.)

“Sorry, what? You came here to talk about… Loki?” Her tongue trips over the name. _Definitely just the mead getting to you, Darce. Better lay off it for the next couple days._ “It’s past midnight!”

“Do you know why we sent you here?”                                   

“Moral support?” Darcy ventures.

“For Dr. Foster, yes. And do you know why she is here?”

Fury’s line of questioning reminds Darcy of her ‘talks’ with her parents when she was in high school. The kinds of conversations that mostly involved over-simplified questions asked in kindergarten voices, requiring obvious answers.She fights the urge to roll her eyes.

“To marry Thor.”                                                      

“To form an alliance,” he corrects, giving Darcy a significant look. “Between Earth and Asgard.” He is being intentionally evasive, and it’s starting to piss her off.

Closing the door behind her, Darcy takes a couple steps forward and throws herself onto the couch across from Fury, sinking into the cushions and drumming her fingers on the armrest in an artificial display of coolness.

“Cut the crap: is S.H.I.E.L.D. planning on using Jane - my favourite boss _and_ best friend, Jane – and Thor’s wedding as a publicity stunt?” For the first time, Director Fury looks truly uncomfortable. Confronting an angry Darcy Lewis is never a good idea.

He presses his fingertips together, and leans forward.

“Not exactly.” He raises a hand before Darcy can interrupt him. “After the ‘nine worlds’ information got leaked, some important people began to worry about one of these… realms in particular. So, an arrangement had to be made.”

“The Asgardians doesn’t pose a threat! And don’t people love Thor?”

“Not the Asgardians, Darcy.” She swallows hard; he never calls her by her first name. “The Frost Giants.”

“Wait, what?”

“We needed a union between our world and theirs’ if we wanted to ensure peace.”

“A union?”

“A marriage.”

“And that is relevant to Jane, how?”

“Not Jane, Darcy. You.”

Darcy jumps up, feeling a twinge of satisfaction at the sight of Director Fury almost flinching, though she can’t relish in the feeling for long.

“You couldn’t possibly be implying… that would just be ridiculous, right?” She laughs nervously. “Oh God. You’re serious, aren’t you? I- an arranged marriage? Really? Is this even legal?”

“I’m sorry, Darce,” a woman cuts in. “I wanted to tell you.”

Darcy turns around to see Jane standing in the hallway. _Marriage._ She’s never even considered it a possibility anywhere in her near future, and now she’s being sold off to some random Frost Giant. _What is this? The Middle Ages?_ She wants to punch something, or throw a pillow. Anything.

 _Why me? Oh, right. Because I’m the ‘useless one.’ Need someone to grab your coffee or help a big blue giant looking for love? Darcy Lewis, at your service._ Tears prick at her eyes, and Darcy tries to brush away the self-pity.

Above all else, what’s really bothering her is that Loki was right. _‘Why would they send two of you?’_ It’s only natural that they have a reason. S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn’t send employees on trips unless it’s for their own questionable purposes.

Fury hands her a sealed letter, and Darcy rips it open, skimming its contents, but it’s almost impossible to make sense of the convoluted legalese, and her eyes are swimming now. The words “for the duration of her mortal life” jump out at her, and she suddenly feels terribly sober.

Darcy sinks back into her seat and looks up at her companions. Jane’s face looks so guilty that Darcy can’t even find it in herself to be angry at her. She has no such pity for Fury, however.

“Who’s the lucky guy?” she asks tersely. Her flippancy and her Taser are the only defenses she has in… well, basically any situation, and her Taser is hardly going to be useful right now. “Christ, are we even” - she cringes at the thought – “ _compatible_? What exactly characterizes a ‘giant’?”

Fury turns to Jane, who gives him a why-are-you-looking-at-me-just-tell-her-already look.

“Should you accept the offer…”

“Like I have a choice.”

“Darce, of course you have a choice,” Jane assures her.

“There are no other non-agents who are up for this, and we don’t have anyone to spare,” Fury says to Jane. It’s almost a compliment, or perhaps just a jab at Darcy’s above-average knowledge of situations at S.H.I.E.L.D. due to her ability to stick her nose into matters that don’t concern her. _Look where that’s gotten you, Lewis._ “We can’t run the risk of another civilian learning so much classified information.” Fury tends to forget that Darcy isn’t an agent; more often than not, she’s ‘Agent Lewis’ to him.

Now, however, the distinction is significant again: she’s just another Normal. Disposable. A run-of-the-mill note taker, assistant, and mother hen to Dr. Foster.

Fury switches his gaze back to Darcy.

“As I was saying, should you accept, you would be engaged to the Frost Giant Prince.” He pauses for dramatic effect, and Darcy wishes that he wouldn’t indulge his hidden sense of melodrama at this particular moment - “Prince Loki.”

Darcy blinks.

“ _Loki?!_ But you said Frost Gia-”

“Darce, I told you about his adoption. He’s not Asgardian,” Jane murmurs.

“Sorry for not connecting the dots between ‘Jötunn’ and ‘Frost Giant.’ Loki’s 6 foot 2, not exactly Goliath. And he’s… I mean, he isn’t-”

“Blue?”

“Let me guess… some of Odin’s special voodoo?”

Jane nods.

“ _Fuck_. I’d prefer Big Blue.”

Fury gets up and dusts off his knees.

“Nope, I lied,” Darcy continues. “I’d prefer not getting married at all, especially not just to make a couple higher-ups on Earth happy.”

“I’ll give you some time to let it all sink in.”

Fury shows himself out, turning back before shutting the door. “And remember: if ‘Real Power’ hurts you in any way whatsoever, I’ll kick his ass.”

The words are almost comforting, but they bear an underlying reminder: any requests S.H.I.E.L.D. makes are token gestures. Darcy’s agreement is a given. Refusal is not an option, regardless of what Jane might say.

Darcy walks over to a cabinet near the back of the room and rifles around until she finds some glass tumblers and a pitcher of something alcoholic. She downs a glass of it in one gulp, and braces herself against the countertop. In an uncharacteristic turn of events, Jane comes over, grabs one of the tumblers and pours herself a drink.

“I’m so sorry, Darce.”

Darcy takes a deep breath, thinking out loud. “Fury wouldn’t let this happen if there weren’t a good reason for it. What are you not telling me?”

“Ever since the death of their king, tensions between Asgard and Jotunheim have been running high. Having aligned itself with Asgard, Earth is now at just as much, if not more, of a risk if war breaks out. If Loki can’t gain his people’s trust…”

“Absolute chaos?”

“He _is_ the god of it.”

“So where do I step in?”

“No one on Earth trusts Loki. In fact, no one in general trusts him. Marriage to a Midgardian would be a sign of peace, as well as a symbol of unity.”

_So nobody on Jotunheim, Asgard, Midgard, or any other –gard or –heim will trust him if he doesn’t prove himself? And right now, they’re willing to accept him just for marrying a random earthling? Well, fuckballs. Fury knows I can’t exactly say no and be responsible for the next Star Wars._

“Give me the lowdown: what exactly does any of this mean?” Darcy asks, tossing Fury’s letter to Jane, who anxiously skims it, biting her lip. Grabbing the pitcher, Darcy slumps back into the couch.

“Alright,” Jane says at last. “You can continue to have your job on Midgard and live a relatively normal life; you will also be provided with an annual stipend courtesy of some very grateful members from three different governments.”

“What’s the catch?”

“You do have to stay married -” “To Loki,” Darcy interrupts. _Like I needed the reminder: thanks, brain._ “- for the length of a normal human life, but you will be enchanted to stay as you are now, to match his aging process.”

“Well that’s really swell,” Darcy deadpans. “It almost makes up for the fact that I have to spend the rest of my life with a psychopath.”

“Darcy, he’s changed!”

“Even so, if he doesn’t hate me yet, he’ll hate me on principle when he finds out about this.” Her stomach clenches at the thought. _What did you expect, Darce? It’s not like he would ever care about you anyway. At best, this can be an amicable, painless arrangement._ The doomful words ‘loveless marriage’ seem to hang heavy over her head. _I can just have hot lovers, right? This is a purely political marriage, isn’t it? In the history books (alright, probably inaccurate historical fiction_ , Darcy corrects herself _) I read, they were always getting it on with random attractive gents and producing illegitimate heirs._

_Heirs. Oh, shit._

“I don’t have to… sleep with him, do I? Are we expected to have kids?” Her voice squeaks on the last word.

Jane clears her throat, and reads: “‘Consummation of the marriage is required under Jötunn law’ – but it _doesn’t_ mention anything about children! – ‘and absolute fidelity from both parties is ensured by a blood contract entered at the time of the wedding.’”

“A blood contract?!”

Jane finishes a shot of alcohol, and joins Darcy on the couch.

“Fuck,” she murmurs. It’s one of the only times Darcy has ever heard her swear, and that’s never a good sign. For a moment, they’re both silent. _Welcome to Shitsville, Lewis_ : _Enjoy your stay. You’re gonna be here for a while._

“Does Loki know about this?”

“Frigga was going to tell him tonight.”

“Don’t envy her the task.”

Jane giggles and grabs the pitcher from Darcy, pouring them both another generous glassful.

“Don’t envy _you_ the task.” The alcohol is finally working its magic, and Darcy snorts at the thought.

“Never figured I’d score such a gem,” Darcy snickers.

Jane full-out laughs. “Well, you know they _do_ call him Silver tongue.”

They both collapse into a fit of hysterics, and as Darcy drains the last of her drink, she turns to Jane, grinning.

“Jane, did you just make a sex joke?”

\--

  _Oh there ain't no love,_

_no Montagues or Capulets_


	4. Diplomacy and Other Failures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was so much fun to write, so I hope you guys enjoy it. Honestly, I just needed more Loki/Darce interaction… now that everything’s set up, it’s time for the fun to begin. Many thanks for the kudos and comments :)

Darcy wakes up feeling the most hung-over she’s felt since a bad mistake in the eleventh grade involving a house party and a bottle of tequila. Her bed – which she hadn’t been able to get a good look at last night – is covered with emerald green sheets hemmed in gold, and the countless dark green pillows (more than are strictly necessary for one 5’4” individual lying on a King-size bed) already seem to beckon her to fall back asleep. The reassertion of Loki’s colours, however, makes further rest impossible, and she groans, her head pounding.

Sitting up, Darcy takes in her first proper view of Asgard; sunlight streams in through the window on the far wall, making the whole room seem to glow a soft shade of gold, and she can make out the sound of birds chirping in the palace grounds below.

She bounces a few times on her cushiony new mattress, enjoying the upgrade from her trundle bed back home, but soon stops when she feels the bile rising in the back of her throat; she throws off her covers and rushes over to a corner, reaching a conveniently situated potted plant before throwing up. _Not one of your better moments._

Darcy can hear the sound of running water down the hall, and she rifles through the half-open suitcase on the floor to find her toiletries. Clutching a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste to her chest, she stumbles down the _way_ too shiny ( _seriously, Asgard needs to tone it down_ ) corridor to find the bathroom.

A very smiley, very shirtless, needless to say very cut – _well done, Jane!_ – Thor greets Darcy as she walks through the tiled entryway, and she grunts what might almost pass for ‘good morning,’ squeezing past him. The front portion of the room is dominated by a large mirror that wraps all the way around the circular entrance, above a similarly curved marbled countertop, housing several white basins with gold faucets. Darcy takes one squinty, bleary-eyed look at her reflection, regrets it, and turns back to the sink as she begins to mechanically brush her teeth.

Jane’s cheery voice is garbled by the sound of water gushing out of the faucet as Darcy spits. _Note to self: dispose of all morning people._ It’s something she imagines Loki would say… she brushes aside that thought immediately. _There will be more than enough Loki over the coming weeks. Don’t let him into your head, too._

Groggily making her way back to her room, Darcy isn’t expecting to walk into all six feet and two inches of said grumpy Norse God; stiffening at the contact, she realizes belatedly that all she is wearing is an oversized Beatles T-shirt.

 _What the fuck is_ he _doing here?_

Too late, she notices the familiar white couches of the sitting area. _Good directional skills, Darce._

She tugs on the ends of her shirt awkwardly, and quietly apologizes into the gold and black breastplate directly in her line of vision, not wanting to lift her eyes. A finger jerks her chin up, and Loki looks down at her coldly.

“Is it too much to expect a proper greeting from my new… intended?” He sucks in his cheeks as he wraps his mouth around the final word, practically spitting it out.

“A ‘proper greeting’? Curb your enthusiasm,” Darcy snarks back. “I wouldn’t want anyone getting the wrong idea about me before my wedding.” Her head still throbbing, she isn’t in the mood for Loki’s testy attitude. “To finally be joined to my _husband_ in holy matrimony. Oh happy day, it can’t possibly come soon enough!”

Loki’s nostrils flare almost imperceptibly at her sarcasm. _Good, I bothered him._

“Rest assured, I have no interest in you either intellectually or physically.” If Darcy weren’t just as bitter at the moment, she might feel hurt.

She takes a deep breath (not at all, in any way, noticing the fresh wintery smell that she can identify immediately as being uniquely Loki), and pushes up against him, her chest squashing uncomfortably against the leather and metal. She smirks as his breath catches and he hardens.

“Tell that to the mini-Mjölnir you’re hiding in your pants,” she hisses.

Elated at for once getting the last word over Loki, who can only stare after her, his pale cheeks flushing, Darcy sashays down the hall swishing her hips, no longer caring that her shirt just barely covers her butt. _He’s gonna see it all sooner or later, anyway._

Her victory is short-lived. She gasps as she is grabbed firmly by the arms and whirled around. Loki glowers at Darcy wordlessly, pushing her flat against one of the curved walls of the hallway. Squeezing her eyes shut, she waits for the inescapable explosion.

It never comes.

She blinks and looks up into Loki’s intense green eyes, still fixed on hers.

He opens his mouth and shuts it again, as though he were about to say something and thought better of it. Darcy remains frozen in place, trembling slightly. She wishes that she could hide her feelings as easily as he does, wearing masks with practised ease. While his face remains impossible to read, her fear is almost palpable in the air.

Loki pulls his hands back suddenly, as though burned. Taking a step back, he exhales deeply; she can feel his cool breath on her, and for a moment everything seems to glow impossibly brightly.

When the glamour dissipates, Darcy’s head is clear, and she is left standing in an empty hallway with only the sound of retreating footsteps and her own erratic heartbeat.

Hearing Jane and Thor’s muffled laughter from within the antechamber, Darcy shakes herself and hurries back to her room.

When she walks in, she sees a young servant girl making her bed. She introduces herself as ‘Alana,’ and offers Darcy a bowl filled with unfamiliar fruits. Picking up a bunch of what look like grapes, Darcy realizes that she is famished; she hadn’t eaten much at the banquet last night, and throwing up this morning hasn’t exactly helped. Alana quietly finishes cleaning the room while Darcy awkwardly stands in a corner, cradling the fruit bowl. The room is almost silent, and Darcy stares ahead blankly as she tries to make sense of what just happened.

_Item 1: Loki knows about the arrangement._

_Item 2: He doesn’t want to marry you. He ~~probably~~ doesn’t like you._

Alana speaks up. “I’ve been instructed to prepare you. The Allfather has requested your presence…”

_Item 3: Loki is a good hangover cure._

_Item 4: Being hung-over would be preferable to how I feel right now._

“Lady Darcy?”

Startled, Darcy drops the bowl.

_Item 5: You’re still a klutz._

Through a series of ninja-like movements (Tasha would be proud), she somehow manages to catch the piece of pottery, almost doing the splits in the process. Giggling slightly, Alana helps Darcy up, and removes the bowl from her arms before it can face any further mistreatment.

Regaining her balance, Darcy smiles ruefully. “I’m not a lady. And after that stunning display, I think you can safely call me Darcy.”

“Darcy,” Alana repeats, seemingly unaccustomed to this level of familiarity. “Shall I get you ready?”

Darcy nods, and walks behind the changing screen. Pulling off her T-shirt, she lets it fall to the floor. Alana’s thin arm reaches around the screen, handing Darcy an emerald gown. _It’s like everything I own has to reinforce the fact that I’m getting married to Loki._

Darcy seriously considers refusing the dress, but she doesn’t want to be difficult, especially when from this point on, her actions are all politically charged. _Honestly, the dress is the least of your worries, Lewis._ Sighing, she grabs the garment and yanks it over her head.

Seeing that this is the perfect opportunity to learn about the main cause of her worries, Darcy decides to pull one of her top spy movie techniques. _Tasha has taught me so well._

“What do you know about Loki?” she asks, feigning idle curiosity as Alana tightens the fastenings of the gown; a series of intricate laces that take twice as long to do up as a normal piece of clothing. For an advanced society, the Asgardians spend way too much time getting dressed. They don’t seem to believe in undergarments either, so Darcy has been left to pray that the bodice will suffice.

“Prince Loki?”

Alana’s hands still at the question. _Oh shit, Lewis, now look what you’ve done. Fancying yourself the Mistress of Subtlety, indeed._

“He’s very…” Alana pauses. “…enigmatic.”

“A diplomatic term.”

Alana turns to a side table to fetch a hairbrush.

“The Prince enjoys playing tricks, but he generally leaves the servants alone, and lets us do our work,” she mumbles, running a brush through Darcy’s unruly bed head. “He can get quite angry, too, but I have never seen him take out his anger on any of us. He usually spends his time in the library or in his study up in the tower.”

It’s the most Darcy has ever heard the girl speak.

“I- Please don’t get the wrong idea, I only know because…” Alana blushes. “Both of the princes have guards stationed outside their rooms.”

“Let me guess: you’re sweet on one of them?”

“Yes. Dagur,” Alana murmurs with a small smile. Darcy lets out a breath that she didn’t know she was holding. _I wasn’t jealous. That would be stupid, right?_ Alana has a new look in her eye that reminds Darcy of Jane when she mentions Thor, and Darcy smiles hollowly, an unfamiliar feeling of emptiness settling in her gut.

“Darce, are you ready?”

 _Praise the Lord for Dr. Jane Foster and her well-timed interruptions._ Jane rushes into the room, looking every bit the part of an Asgardian princess (albeit a harried princess – maybe one on the run from a dragon). Her dress is made up of layers upon layers of almost-sheer red material that flows behind her as she moves, and a silver belt cinches it in at the waist.

“Time to meet the Allfather-in-law,” Darcy says with more confidence than she really feels, slipping on a pair of cuffs (gold – probably real gold, judging by the weight of them).

“I’m so nervous,” Jane admits as they walk toward the throne room.

“It can’t be that scary, can it?” Darcy whispers.

She regrets her words as soon as she sees Odin seated on the throne. Thor and Loki are already waiting before him along with Frigga, who warmly greets the two women as they enter the room. Thor’s head is turned toward the doors, reminding Darcy of a groom waiting at the end of the aisle, while Loki stands ramrod straight, glaring.

As she walks closer to the throne, she cringes at each loud, echo-y rap from her shoes hitting against the smooth floor. She finally stops once she is a few feet away from the throne (and more than a few feet away from her Dearly Beloved).

“Darcy Lewis of Midgard.” Odin’s voice seems to fill the entire room. “Today is the announcement of your engagement to Prince Loki Odinson –” Loki coughs, but Odin continues. “– of Jotunheim.”

Darcy nods in assent, not wanting to say anything aloud and risk embarrassment. She’s afraid that if she opens her mouth, the bitterness that has been building up inside her will spill over. _Play it cool._ The soundtrack of West Side Story starts playing in her head. _No head bobbing, Lewis, absolutely none allowed._

“In a few moments, you will be presented to the people of Asgard for the first time.” Odin gestures to a balcony that looks out over the courtyard, already filled with people (nobles, she presumes). “It is your duty to demonstrate Midgard – and Asgard’s – amity and good relations with the Jötunn realm.”

“Yes, your Excellency,” Darcy replies, hoping that she used the correct form of address. Allfather isn’t exactly a common title.

Loki laughs harshly. “Ah yes, the much-anticipated _relations_ between Asgard’s fallen Prince and Midgard’s whore. Am I to be _happy_ about my debasement with a mortal?”

Gritting her teeth, Darcy stares straight ahead, refusing to look at the fiancé who hasn’t even spared her a glance since she walked in.

“Spare me. I’m the one who has to put up with you for _the rest of my life_. You have to sacrifice, what, a fiftieth of yours? How you suffer,” she hisses. “Anyway, if the _God_ of Lies isn’t even capable of pretending to be happy for all of ten seconds, then you don’t deserve the title, you arrogant twat.” Darcy takes a deep breath and turns to face him. “And I’m not _anyone’s_ whore.”

Odin’s mouth twitches, and Thor stifles what sounds like a chuckle. Loki smiles slowly, and openly runs his eyes over Darcy with renewed interest. She feels like he’s mentally cataloguing all of her, picking apart the pieces until there is nothing left. Odin stands up, breaking the silence with his heavy footsteps.

“It is time.”

 


	5. A Kiss is a Lovely Trick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a lot of stuff happens for which I will not apologize, and the Black Widow always gives the best advice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy moly, thanks for all the kudos and comments!!! Any encouragement is much appreciated, and much needed :)

 

Loki places a hand at the small of Darcy’s back and directs her (or really, pushes her) forward. Odin is already standing before the people in all his Allfather glory, Queen Frigga at his side.

Darcy can practically _hear_ him smirking beside her.

“An arrogant twat?” Loki whispers, distracting her from Odin’s speech. “Was that the best you could do?”

Darcy isn’t quite sure whether that was one of her proudest or worst moments; she _did_ just insult her fiancé in front of her soon-to-be in-laws, but… she can’t say it wasn’t satisfying.

Staring straight ahead, she rolls her eyes, wishing it were easier to ignore him. Maybe she could invest in some sort of God-proof duct tape.

“How about you save us both a world of pain, and shut up.” _Nice self-control, Darce. Well done._

“So this is Midgard’s idea of amity? I’m hurt.”

“Oh, honey bun, I’m sure you’ll get used to it – after all, you have nearly a century of this ahead of you.” She shakes her head sadly. “To be forced to debase yourself with a lesser mortal. My apologies in advance for the sullying of your untarnished reputation.” _Sass the unstable psychopath again? Sure. Why not?_

Loki’s hand is still resting at the curve of Darcy’s spine and his fingers idly tap out a rhythm as she stands stiffly, watching Odin.

“My outburst earlier was… uncalled for,” Loki says at last. It’s unexpected, to say the least. If she didn’t know better, she might even have melted a little at the big ol’ God of Mischief admitting his faults. But Darcy Lewis is not a fool, and she does know better.

“Why Loki, that was almost an apology.”

“Don’t get too used to it.” The words carry a serious warning that belies his easy drawl: he isn’t about to make himself weak for anyone. _It’s easy to forget when he almost acts nice._

Loki pulls his hand away – her body misses the comforting weight of it for a moment – and his face settles back into its familiar uncaring mask. Darcy can dimly make out the words “Lady Jane Foster and Prince Thor Odinson,” and then Jane smiles at Darcy reassuringly, taking Thor’s arm and walking out onto the balcony. The pair is greeted with cheers.

“Look, I know you aren’t happy about this arrangement,” Darcy blurts out before she can help herself. “Hell, I’m not. But this is about something much bigger than us. Can you please just… pretend to care?”

Loki gives her a calculating look, and smirks. _Bastard._

“If my lady commands a show…” _Oh dear._ He offers her his hand, and Darcy wordlessly takes it, growing more and more anxious with each step she takes as they walk out onto the balcony.

“Lady Darcy Lewis and Prince Loki… Laufeyson.” For the purposes of the alliance with Jotunheim, Loki’s true parentage must be acknowledged, but Darcy could swear she hears Odin trip up on the name. _God, how does Loki not see this?_

Loki pulls her forward, and then drops her hand as they stand side by side, looking down at the now silent courtyard. He turns to face Darcy. “Trust me?” his voice murmurs in her mind. She nods quickly, before she can rethink her answer, and suddenly he is cupping her face in his hands, leaning toward her as her eyes shut, and then there is nothing but him kissing her and her kissing him. There is no crowd below, no Odin or Frigga or Jane or Thor. Just his lips on hers and the feeling of every nerve in her body straining to focus on the places where they touch. _God, he’s good at this. Then again, he probably has centuries of experie-_ A light nip at her bottom lip silences the one still functioning part of her brain, and as his mouth continues to softly move against hers, Darcy barely registers the sound of applause.

After what feels like centuries, he finally pulls away, his breath ghosting against her lips. Darcy feels a sharp tugging sensation under her bellybutton, and Loki grins. “Hold tight.” Everything blurs around her, and when her vision focuses again, they are standing just outside her room. _Of course you couldn’t just walk away like a normal person._ Loki lets go of her, and cocks an eyebrow.

“Was that a good enough show, do you think?”

“Not bad,” she replies coolly, taking a few steps back and colliding uncomfortably with one of the hinges on the double doors. _Smooth exit._

He bows curtly. “Good day, Miss Lewis.” And then Loki disappears. _Again._

Darcy slumps against the door, playing the kiss over and over in her head until she’s certain that she is totally and utterly fucked. _He didn’t have to be so goddamned good at it._ He had tasted like mint and icy water and- _Jesus, woman, control yourself. It was just a kiss._

_A kiss. A symbolic way to seal a contract in ancient times._

_Where the hell did you – I – even grab that from? Right. Roman History 101._ Her professor’s voice drones in her head. _‘Kisses have become a popular way to finish up a wedding. To seal the marriage contract.’_

 _I_ really _hated that course._

Darcy can hear Jane hurrying down the hall now, her shoes clicking against the floor.

“Darce?”

Jane drags Darcy into their room, her face alight with curiosity.

“What just happened?”

Darcy can feel the blood rushing to her cheeks.

“Would you hate me if I told you I’m not sure?”

Jane shakes her head. “Of course not.” It’s something Darcy has always loved about Dr. Foster: she knows when not to push people, and what questions to ask. She might have made a good S.H.I.E.L.D. operative, in a different life.

“Was it… good?” Her smile shows that the question is asked more in jest than anything else, but Darcy can still see that inquisitive look in her eye, and to be honest, she’s grateful for the opportunity to share a little light-hearted gossip. Anything to drown out the little voice in her head that wants to read into this and think about how ‘this changes everything.’

“Nuh uh. No details. Not until you spill the beans about how Thor swings his hammer.” But then Jane gives her such a piteous look that Darcy gives in within seconds, and the two lapse into a fit of giggles as they distract themselves from the Arranged Marriage of Doom (dun dun duuun).

“Lady Jane? La- Darcy? I am here to prepare you for tonight’s feast.”

Alana has managed to enter the room almost silently (a skill that all of the servants here seem to have honed), and Jane looks up in surprise at the interruption. Darcy wonders if she should ask her for tips at some point. Alana doesn’t seem to walk so much as glide, unlike Darcy, who is mainly focused on not slipping on thin air. It wouldn’t do to trip over herself while meeting Jötunn envoys, or while walking down the aisle. _And now we’re back to thinking about… that. Thanks, Brain. But honestly, literally rolling in the aisles? Not a good idea at all._ _On that note, remember: No mead for you tonight. None. Not a drop._

She steadily repeats a No Mead for Darcy Lewis chant as she takes her shower – she spends half her time under the showerhead simply delighting in the fact that the water never seems to go cold or scalding hot – and then continues as she pulls on a (needless to say, green) bathrobe.

“Darcy? You have a visitor.”

“Tasha?!”

Darcy launches herself into the Black Widow’s arms. Tasha clears her throat, and she steps back. _Personal space, Darce. Learn it, live it, love it._

“When did _you_ get here?” she asks, taking a seat on the edge of her bed.

“We all came to see the announcement of the engagement,” Tasha answers, gesturing to her black evening gown.

“You saw it?” Darcy’s cheeks pale. “All of it? Including the…” She can’t even bring herself to say the word ‘kiss,’ instead flopping her hands around anxiously.

Tasha lets out an uncharacteristic laugh. _I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’_ Darcy buries her face in her hands.

“Oh, it can’t have been _that_ bad.”

“That’s the _problem_ ,” she wails. “It _wasn’t_ bad!” _It was way, way, way too good._ “But then Mr. ‘Was that a good enough show’ had to go and push me away the second it almost seemed like he might not hate me.”

“Well, Darcy, it’s not like the guy who attempted world takeover when he discovered he was adopted is going to be good at handling emotions.” Tasha sits beside her, wrapping an arm around her comfortingly.

“I know, but I’m so scared,” Darcy admits quietly. “I always told myself that I would marry someone who loved me. Now, I’m stuck with someone who… Christ, I don’t even know if he’ll ever even _like_ me.”

“Darcy, please don’t tell me you honestly believe that he doesn’t like you,” Tasha sighs. “He kissed you in front of an entire courtyard of people.”

“To mess with my feelings.”

“No, to take advantage of a situation where he could play it off as a joke.”

“So what are you saying?”

“I’m saying that you have a chance here. Come on, reading people is basically my job. Have a little faith. Tonight is the official engagement party, and we’re going to make it go well even if I have to sic the rest of the Avengers on Loki’s ass. Now do you want my help, or not?”

“ _Any_ help would be appreciated, at this point.” Tasha pulls Darcy up by the hands.

“Let’s think about this for a moment. He just made himself almost vulnerable, which means he’s probably going to be cold and standoffish tonight. That’s just his nature. Don’t forget, he _is_ the God of Lies. Never take his words at face value, okay?” Darcy nods. “Good. Lesson one: Remind him -”

“That he’s an ass?”

“I was going to say ‘what he’s missing,’ but that works too. So, first things first, dress the part.”

Tasha motions to Alana, who starts pulling potential gowns out of the wardrobe. “Not green,” Tasha says firmly, eventually settling on a dress in black and gold.

“Tasha, it’s… backless.” “Trust me on this one, alright?”

Grumbling to herself as she slips behind the changing screen, Darcy pauses before pulling it on over her head. The stiff V-neck bodice is embroidered with golden snakes that seem to move and slither as they catch the light. As she does up the dress, the silky fabric slides over her skin.

Darcy shimmies in front of the mirror until she is content that she isn’t running the risk of popping out of her dress. _Okay, it’s kind of perfect._

Twirling giddily, she indulges her inner 5-year-old and spins until the full skirt whooshes around her legs.

“Lesson one: Look good. Definitely got that one down. What’s next?” Darcy asks as Alana starts to pin up her hair, threatening to poke her with a hairpin if she doesn’t stop moving.

“Lesson two: Loki is possessive. And that means…”

“I should make him jealous?”

“Exactly. If he won’t dance with you, somebody else will. Loki might not like that you’re his intended, but you’re still _his_ , in his mind. This is where the dress becomes important. Seeing someone else touching you?”

“ _Very_ not okay?”

“You could say that. Lesson three, but really the only important lesson: Be yourself. Don’t take his shit. Besides, he probably gets off on your sass.”

Darcy almost falls over while attempting to pull on her gold pumps.

“Tasha!”

“What?” Tasha takes in Darcy’s now red cheeks and smiles. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

“How about we go see Jane?” Darcy suggests, tottering slightly.

Tasha smirks. “I know I’m right,” she singsongs as she walks down the hall.

“Natasha? Welcome to Asgard!” Jane smiles shyly as she steps out of her room. Her eyes widen as she takes a look at Darcy, who is mostly focussed on her mental remix of the No Mead chant. It now includes a resounding chorus of ‘heel toe heel toe heel toe’ as she tries to move smoothly in 5-inch heels.

“Whoa, Darce. You look amazing.”

“Whoa, yourself!”

Jane’s dress is silver, and flows around her in a way that reminds Darcy of a Grecian statue. Jane tugs at the clingy fabric.

“I’m not sure I’m going to be able to get used to this,” she mutters. Darcy knows that she would probably prefer going out doing science-y things. Hell, even Darcy, who loves getting done up and wearing pretty dresses every now and then, is a little tired of it already. _Or maybe you’re just tired of who you’re getting dressed up_ for _._

_Oh, shut up, annoying inner voice._

“We can always get Volstagg to indulge in a drinking game,” she stage-whispers back, linking arms with Jane and Tasha, and dragging them all toward the double doors. _After all, if you aren’t feeling confident, act even more extroverted to compensate._

She smiles as she walks through the shining entrance of the banquet hall, and sees some familiar faces: Pepper, Clint, Steve, Bruce, and-

“TONY!” Darcy exclaims. He looks up from his Stark phone and grins, pulling her in for a bear hug. _Thank goodness he isn’t wearing the suit today._

“How’s it goin’, home skillet? Nice game of tonsil hockey. Do I need to defend your honour from Reindeer Games?”

Darcy mock-glares at him.

“I’ll keep you posted, _Dad_.”

\--

_And your shoulders are frozen_  
 _(as cold as the night)_  
 _Oh, but you're an explosion_  
 _(you're dynamite)_


	6. Snark Attack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lots of Darcy snark and Loki being a lil shit.

“Hey!” Tony yelps as his Stark phone is whisked out of his hands, before going very, very silent. A pair of long, thin fingers dangles the phone mockingly in front of his nose. Without turning around, Darcy already knows who has just arrived (and is presently standing directly behind her).

“Stark,” Loki says smoothly, retracting his hand – and with it, Tony’s precious device. If she were being completely honest, Darcy might admit that his presence is almost comforting. His breath brushes her bare shoulder, and if she leaned back just slightly, they would be touching… _No. None of that._

“Welcome to Asgard.” The words sound almost courteous, but the sentiment is less than sincere.

Tony moves his lips soundlessly in response. He looks like an outraged penguin, the petulant look on his face reminding Darcy of a sulky four-year-old – a look that is completely at odds with the composure inherent to his doubtless designer tuxedo.

_Tony Stark at a loss for words. Never thought I’d see the day._

Pepper stands at Tony’s side, seeming quietly amused by the situation. Steve watches Bruce cautiously, while Natasha appears as nonchalant as ever, though she has one hand on Clint’s shoulder. A warning for the tensed arm looking like it just itches to reach for a bow. A quick check reassures Darcy that Clint didn’t bring a weapon along when he changed into his suit. _A visible weapon_ , she corrects herself. Trained assassins tend to have a few tricks – or knives – up their sleeves. _Sweetie pie better not piss him off._

Darcy glances over her shoulder at Loki, trying to gauge his mood. Outwardly, at least, he isn’t anxious; on the contrary, he doesn’t blink as he takes in the group of heroes currently congregated in the entrance to the banquet hall.

“By all means,” Loki goes on in a bored tone, meeting stunned silence. “Do continue to block the doorway. What is it that you say on Midgard – make yourselves at home?”

He looks back down at the phone in his hands, and leans against the doorway, apparently finished mingling with his guests. His fingertips slide deftly over the glass touchscreen, which begins to glow a telltale shade of gold. _Oh, if he abracadabra’s Tony’s phone, shit is going to hit the fan._ Not that Darcy feels like stopping him. (As if she could.) _He can’t do that much harm, can he? There isn’t any service here. He_ could _change Tony’s password… Hmm. ‘lokilover123’? Too cliché?_ Loki’s lips turn up at the corners, and Darcy remembers too late that he can hear her thoughts. _Well, Darce, if you knew Iron Man’s secret weakness, now would be the time to_ not _remember it_ at all _, okay?_

With the exception of the God of Purloined Smart Phones, everyone in the room is beginning to look around awkwardly, waiting for someone else to speak first. _Jane,_ Darcy prays. _Jane, please take a break from the sexy times or hot make-out sessions or whatever with Muscle Man, and_ save us _._

Right on cue, Jane walks in on Thor’s arm, laughing gently as he whispers something in her ear. They both stop in their tracks at the sight of the standoff between Loki and, well, everyone else. Loki lifts his head, assuming an innocuous look, and the phone disappears from his hands.

Tony reaches into his pocket and pulls out the magically restored Stark phone. He seems wary as he enters his password to unlock the phone.

“Dude, did you seriously set me up with phone service and an Internet connection just so you could mess with my Facebook?” he grins. His smile fades comically as he looks more closely at his recent Facebook activity. Pepper peeks over his shoulder. She tries (and fails) to stifle a laugh. “I didn’t know that you and Sleipnir were so close, Tony. Nice profile pic.”

Tony chuckles good-naturedly.

“Was that really the best you could-” He looks down at his phone with a gradually increasing sense of horror, turning it over in his hands. “What have you done to my baby?” he thunders.

“I’ve improved it,” Loki replies.

“There was nothing to improve! Look at it now. It’s _green!_ ” Tony looks outraged as he takes in the new emerald casing.

“And the _operating system_! It’s all…”

A hologram of his Iron Man suit pops up around him, and Tony rolls his eyes, still unimpressed. ‘Like Stark Enterprises doesn’t already do holograms,’ his face seems to say.

His irritation, however, is quickly replaced by a Christmas-came-early joy when the not-really-there suit begins to lift him up into the air. He lets out a laugh as he balances in the air for a few moments, returning to the ground and dismissing the suit with a wave of his hand so he can examine the device in his palm with renewed interest.

“…different,” Tony finishes.

“A ‘thank you’ would suffice,” Loki smirks. “Though I am also partial to firstborn children.” Darcy snorts despite herself. _Nice one._

Thor clears his throat.

“My friends, if you are ready, may I now direct you _into_ the banquet hall?” _Wow. By Thor’s standards that was positively sassy._

Conversation begins to bubble again, and Darcy loses herself in the hum of all the familiar voices as she walks toward the banquet table. More guests (Asgardian diplomats, as well as some uncomfortable-looking ~~tall~~ friggin’ _huge_ blue gentlemen that Darcy identifies as Jötunn ambassadors) file in as she sits down. Loki had wordlessly led her to the head of the table, toward a couple of shiny seats to the right of Odin and Frigga’s thrones, and he is now sprawled out beside her, his legs spread wide – _really, really wide_ – as he moodily levitates a coin, which rolls between his fingers without touching the skin. Darcy notes with a sigh that the rest of the Avengers have been placed at the opposite end of the table. She will instead be sandwiched between Frigga and Loki, which will probably translate to a lot of strained silences and snarky comments. _What fun!_

Finally, the Allfather arrives, and the feasting begins. Darcy makes it through the appetizer (something she recognizes as a salad of some sort) without speaking a word to anyone, with the exception of a shy greeting to the in-laws. Loki makes a point of ignoring her, though their arms brush once when he pulls her goblet out of the reach of one of the serving girls before it can be filled with mead. They both jerk at the contact, and Darcy becomes fascinated with the wood grain along the corner of the table.

As the second course – a strange blue-green soup – is being served, the Jötunn ambassador walks up to the head of the table, bending at the waist to pay his respect to Frigga. At about nine feet tall, covered by nothing but a fur loincloth, the first impression Darcy gleans is that he is really quite… _blue_.

_You tried, Lewis. You tried._

He speaks in a low voice to Frigga, but Darcy can’t understand what he is saying, simply hearing harsh, guttural sounds rather than the magically translated English she’s used to. As the Frost Giant turns to her, she feels a sudden sinking feeling. She freezes for a moment, locked in his impossibly old, gleaming red gaze.

Loki grabs her hand roughly under the table, and she feels a shock of magic run through her. He releases her just as quickly, and returns to staring off into space, disinterested as usual.

“ **Darcy Lewis. You do Jotunheim a great honour** ,” the ambassador states.

_Whoa. It’s like my head is Google Translate!_

“ **How nice it is that peace between realms can finally come, and in the form of a wedding. It has been too long since the Jötunn have seen the end of war in sight.** ” Darcy is surprised, honestly. From what she had heard about the Jötunn – which, admittedly, was not much – they sounded like they would talk like oogabooga cavemen, not cultured aristocrats from Victorian novels.

“Th-thank you,” she stutters, trying to think of some good diplomatic lingo. _Let’s do this, Lewis: put that Poli Sci major to good use._ She clears her throat.“Thank you. But let me say that it is _Jotunheim_ that does _me_ an honour.” Loki fixes his eyes on her, paying attention now. “On Midgard, as on Asgard, we can be quick to judge what we don’t understand, and it is only through cooperation that we can overcome our differences.” Since Ice Man doesn’t look like he’s about to turn her into a popsicle, Darcy continues, trying to ignore Loki’s intense scrutiny. “I’m grateful for your confidence in me. Every partnership fails when never attempted.” _Pretty sure you stole that from somewhere, but just go with it, Darce._

“ **To be over-cautious is not always the wisest course of action** ,” the ambassador says with a new respect in his eyes. “ **And to rely on presuppositions is even less so.** ” _Damn, this guy gets me._

“Yeah- _yes_. We need change, and change comes when we have leaders who are unafraid to take risks. A leader who is ambitious, quick-witted, and loyal to his people. I have faith that Prince Loki will make a good, strong king.” _FUCK. Didn’t mean to say that out loud. Well done, Darce… What are you? His campaign manager?_ She means every word of it, though, and that worries her a little. _He_ will _make a good king, though._

“ **And you, a good, strong queen.** ” The ambassador bows. “ **Truly, the castles of Jotunheim will be fortunate to have both of you gracing their halls.** ”

Before she can elbow the Grinch to jump in, the words are already flowing out of his mouth. “My sincerest thanks, Bergelmir. Your silver tongue could put mine to shame.”

“ **My Prince, you are lucky in your choice of bride. I wish you both much happiness.** ”

Loki stands up and bows in return, before saying something in a tongue that Darcy can’t understand, and returning to his seat.

 _I thought Loki speaks in Allspeak._ “Not everything is for your ears, little one.”

 _I’m sorry;_ who _do you think you are, calling me ‘little one’? I mean, you’re the runt, Grumpy the Frost dwarf… And you_ seriously _need to stop reading my mind._ “Then stop thinking so loudly.” _Pardon me, good sir. Now GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HEAD._

Loki turns back to his goblet of mead, and Darcy stirs her soup half-heartedly. She’s too anxious to be hungry.

In truth, Darcy is scared of how much Grouchypants can hear. Tasha’s plan can hardly work if he knows what’s going on, and how is she supposed to have any privacy when he knows exactly what she’s thinking? _Not that you need to worry about that, when you’re already writing odes to his name. ‘Ambitious, quick-witted, and loyal to his people,’_ her brain parrots back at her. _Christ._

“Ambitious and quick-witted,” Loki muses, and Darcy almost chokes on her soup.

“I needed to think of a euphemism for megalomaniacal,” she whispers back.

“Big words – have you been expanding your vocabulary?” His voice is hushed, but she hears every acerbic word.

“I’m not a total idiot, you know. And you could at least say thank you.”

“A God-”

“Yeah, yeah, a God pays no thanks to a mortal, an ant has no quarrel with a boot. I get it, tough guy.”

“Do you truly believe that I have need of your help in this matter or any other? I could talk those spineless diplomats into the palm of my hand within seconds,” he murmurs.

“All talk and no action… I don’t think this bodes well for the wedding night. I’ll just have to suffer through it.” A servant walks by, and Darcy quickly feigns a caring smile at Loki for everyone’s sake. She recoils slightly as her bowl of barely eaten soup is removed and replaced with a plate of- _Is that boar? Seriously?_

Loki looks at his own plate with distaste and leans back in his chair.

She isn’t sure if it’s out of boredom or something else, but Darcy finds herself whispering to him again:“Tell me, do you sit like that because it’s more comfortable or because you want to make up for other… deficiencies down under?”

“You find me lacking?” Rather than being insulted, Loki grins darkly, like she has just challenged him to a game. _Shit, Tasha’s totally right about the sass as a turn-on thing._ “I would remind you of some rather _solid_ evidence to the contrary.” _Cocky – ha! – bastard._ Not that she would disagree with the cold, _hard_ proof. _Really need to get your head out of the gutter, Darce._

“You’re not lacking in arrogance, at least.”

“Said the Midgardian to the God. Recognition of one’s own value is not arrogance.”

“And the belief that one is naturally superior?”

“My dear, do not forget your place.”

“Is it just your _instinct_ to threaten people or do you practice in front of the mirror every morning?”

“Is it yours to pass judgment unreservedly?”

“Pass judgment?”

“You pretend to know me, Miss Lewis, but we are nothing more than two individuals who have signed a contract. There is nothing more between us than that.” ‘ _Don’t forget, he is the God of Lies.’_

Odin is standing up and saying some final words to the gathering. “… the marriage of Prince Loki and Lady Darcy.” The words seem to blur, and Darcy feels dizzy. _‘Never take his words at face value.’_

“You are a means to a throne,” Loki whispers in a sympathetic tone.

As people begin to clap, signifying the end of Odin’s speech, Loki presses his thumb under her chin and, turning her head, kisses Darcy hard on the mouth. The table erupts into cheers, and Darcy fakes a smile as Loki stands up and excuses himself from the banquet.


	7. The Rhythm of Rise and Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait, guys!!! Hopefully the length of the chapter makes up for it...

Darcy isn’t quite sure what she was expecting, but it wasn’t this.

To be fair, having been given little to no background information on Asgardian partying ways (asides from firsthand observations of Thor drinking apparently limitless amounts of alcohol), her expectations were unlikely to match up to her current reality, but she’s now equal parts impressed and apprehensive.

She had envisioned the Vikings soundtrack playing in the background while people milled around like teenagers at a crappy high school dance. Albeit a dance with alcohol that they didn’t have to smuggle in themselves, nicer outfits, and a group of ‘chaperones’ who just congregated around the punch bowl, getting progressively louder and drunker.

The situation as it stands now is infinitely classier, and therefore much, much worse: the banquet table has been cleared away, opening up space in the middle of the room for a dance floor, and as the music begins to play, seemingly coming out of thin air, Darcy recognizes the familiar pattern of a waltz.

Thor smiles at the surprise clearly evident on her face. “My brother loved traveling to different realms. Midgard’s Romantics fascinated him.”

It’s not what Darcy would have supposed, especially given Loki’s insistence on the worthlessness of earthlings… though, disregarding that, an interest in the Romantic Era almost makes sense: depressive artists obsessed with ideals of honour and love. _Maybe there’s a big ol’ softie hiding underneath all that leather._

‘ _We are nothing more than two individuals who have signed a contract_ ,’ her brain oh-so-helpfully reminds butts in. _Definitely a softie, Darce._ The words ‘means to a throne’ echo mockingly in her head, but Darcy shakes them off. _Hmph. Means to a throne, my ass. At least I’m a damn fine means to a throne._

Still, the words sting a bit – hitting too close to home, perhaps.

“Tasha?” Darcy asks, tapping her lightly on the shoulder.

She’s probably just being paranoid, but the words seem to hang in the air for a moment, and Darcy has to stop herself from scanning the room to see if anyone else noticed. They can’t have, of course. The little huddle of Avengers and Company making its way toward the dance floor is still ten feet away from any curious eavesdroppers, so unless someone with mystical hearing abilities – which, honestly, wouldn’t surprise her at this point – is listening in, she should be safe. ‘Should’ being the operative word. _Calm down, Darce. This isn’t 1984. Big Brother isn’t watching… well, I mean, Heimdall is, but that doesn’t count, right?_

Tasha turns her head, but Darcy quickly looks away, not wanting to draw attention to herself. _One second you’re rubbing shoulders with Superiority Complex Incarnate, and the next, you think you’re the centre of the universe._

Not that their shoulders are the only things that have touched recently. Darcy hates the way her lips can still recall the pressure of his mouth on hers, the way even such a cruel, hard kiss could feel so good. _Having sensory memory can be a real bitch._

Thor takes Jane’s hand, leading her out onto the dance floor, and Darcy looks around, trying to locate Loki. She finally notices him leaning against the wall, glaring straight ahead. He meets her eyes, and suffice to say, his gaze doesn’t exactly convey any intention of dancing with her.

Tasha subtly whispers to Darcy out of the corner of her mouth. “Go for Fandral.”

“What?”

“The cute one… Looks like Robin Hood?”

“I know who he _is_ , I just don’t get what you’re- _oh_. Yeah, I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

“He’s a natural flirt, Darcy. And he was friends with Loki growing up. It’s perfect.”

“No, Tasha, I just mean in general. I don’t think this is a good ide-”

Tasha shakes her head. “The night is still young. You’re doing this even if I have to drag you kicking and screaming.” _Knowing Tasha, she’s probably totally serious. And you’re not exactly going to win in a fight with the Black Widow._

“Okay, okay, fine,” Darcy mumbles, grateful for the year’s worth of ballroom classes she took when she was going through one of her ‘finding yourself’ phases. _At least the waltz is something you can do. Unlike that whole zumba fiasco. Those were dark times…_

Putting on a smile, Darcy curtsies as Fandral approaches, bowing at the waist.

“Lady Darcy, may I have the honour of this dance?” _Fandral the Dashing, indeed._

“You may,” she replies with a saccharine smile. _Too fake? Maybe tone it down a little…_

Darcy places one hand on his, and the other on his shoulder. Her grip tightens a little as they begin to dance, and she seriously questions her decision to wear 5-inch heels. _Dressed to kill. Time for some snappy pick-up lines, Darce. Come on._

She bites her lip, wanting to say something, but she isn’t quite sure how to start, so she keeps quiet, her eyebrows furrowed in concentration as she focuses on not stepping on his feet, her steps gradually growing smoother as she follows his lead.

Her flirting is a little rusty, given that her only recent experience has involved sassing Tall, Dark, and Moody. (The Handsome applies as well, but she’d rather not think about that right now.)

At last Fandral breaks the silence for her.

“I know what you’re doing.”

Darcy contemplates whether or not to play dumb. _Always innocent until proven guilty. Bring out the doe eyes, Lewis._

“Who, me?”

Fandral chuckles. “You’re using me to make your dear beloved over there jealous.”

 _Well, I guess the jig is up._ “And if I am?”

“Any friend of Thor’s is a friend of mine. And I never object to helping a friend.”

“And what about sourpuss?” Darcy asks, nodding at the God sulking in the corner. She’s curious; Fandral doesn’t seem to bear the same distrust toward Loki that the others do. _Are they even friends? Does Loki even_ do _‘friends’?_

“This may be the kindest thing I’ve ever done for him.”

“Flirting with me? How noble.”

“I never said that good deeds didn’t come with additional benefits.” Fandral expertly twirls her and grins. He’s smooth, she’ll give him that. And his eyes crinkle when he smiles; there’s something simple about a man who wears his heart so blatantly on his sleeve. He’s exactly the kind of guy she would have gone for a couple weeks ago. (Darcy can name the jerky, leather-clad reason for her disinterest, but that train of thought is headed in dangerous territory, and she tamps it down.)

“I would recommend laughing like I’ve just said something hilarious,” Fandral murmurs, spinning her again. The unspoken reason behind it makes Darcy’s heart beat a little faster. _So he’s looking? Good. Let him watch._

Darcy counts to three, and bursts into a perfectly timed fit of giggles, letting Fandral pull her a little closer.

“Well done.”

She attempts a coquettish smile (if it turns out as more of a strange contortion of the lips, well, it might hopefully remain convincing enough from afar).

“Don’t take this the wrong way…”

“My Lady, everyone in the room knows to whom your heart belongs, arrangement or not.”

Darcy turns pink. “Is he still looking?”

Fandral nods quickly.

“Do me a favour, and be less than a gentleman for a moment.” _I want to hurt him. And if this is the only way, so be it._

Fandral looks straight into Darcy’s eyes, checking for any sign of reconsideration. She stares back at him unflinchingly, and his face blank, Fandral begins to curl his arm around her, placing his hand flat against the exposed skin of her back, closer to her waist.

She could just be imagining things, but it almost feels like the room grows colder.

“Is this acceptable?” Darcy listens anxiously for some kind of thickness or roughness in his voice, but Fandral sounds as light-hearted and easygoing as ever, and she relaxes in his arms. He gently trails his fingers up and down the dip in her spine, clucking his tongue.

“By the Norns, my lady, if he isn’t jealous yet, he doesn’t deserve you.”

“Deserve me? But haven’t you heard? ‘He is a _God_ , foolish mortal.’” Darcy laughs, a little bitterly, at her bad Loki impression. _I guess I’ll have plenty of time to hear him calling me a foolish mortal firsthand._

“A God, second, but a man, first, Lady Darcy.” The song is coming to an end, and Fandral’s gaze flits distractedly in the direction of Sif, who is waltzing with Volstagg, her head tilted back in laughter. Darcy’s lips quirk at the corners. _Fandral and Sif? Oh, that_ definitely _needs to happen._

“Darcy,” she smiles. “Just Darcy is fine.”

“If I might interrupt?” She jolts at the sudden sound of Burdened with Glorious Dickishness’ voice. _He moves like a frickin’ cat or something._

Fandral lets go of Darcy and bows. “It was a pleasure, Darcy.”

She takes particular pride in the way Loki’s eyes tighten when Fandral says her name. _That’s ‘Miss Lewis’ to you._

“Darling. Did you miss me?” His voice is perfectly even and assured as he takes her hand and tugs her into his arms. The dance comes naturally to him, and his movements are seamless. _Figures that he’d be graceful, too._

 _Fucker_ , the less generous part of her mind tacks on at the end.

“I finally feel whole again,” she mutters. _Come on, Darce, put a bit more oomph into it._ The sensation of his hand pressed against her back is (not entirely unpleasantly) distracting, however, and she’s having difficulty thinking of a snarky one-liner. She feels her ankle wobble slightly, and she tries not to grip his hand too tightly as she tenses, praying to whatever Higher Powers to please, _please_ not let her trip right now.

“You won’t break me, my dear,” he whispers.

“What?” She can already feel a bright red blush crawling up her cheeks.

“If you need help balancing in those ridiculous Midgardian contraptions, you need only ask.”

She considers refusing, but considering he already thinks she’s an idiot, practicality wins out. For all that Loki might be cruel, his obvious indifference for her permits a certain amount of freedom. She presses her hand a little harder into his shoulder (vindictively hoping it hurts a little, though Loki is every bit a God, and doesn’t even react to the added pressure).

“You really know how to compliment a woman. A dig at my shoes _and_ my lack of poise? Nicely done.”

“Lack of poise?” His voice is softer now, oozing with sex appeal. “Your words, not mine. I never implied that you look anything other than ravishing, Miss Lewis.”

“Ravishing?” She musters enough strength of will to cock an eyebrow at him, shoving down the little leap of joy at his attention. _Pathetic, Lewis._ “I believe that’s twice now that I’ve been _graced_ with your praise.”

“Slip of the tongue. I really must tone it down, mustn’t I? Wouldn’t want you getting greedy.”

“Speaking of slipping, watch your eyes. My face is up here.”

Loki grins darkly.

“My apologies.”

Darcy gasps as he lowers her into a dip, his palm sliding lower as she clings to him.

“Is this better?” he whispers, his gaze now meeting hers directly.

“Much,” she manages to reply as he pulls her back up. She swallows hard, and tries to look away from his unfairly attractive face.

“Oh come now, already getting flustered?”

He lifts her hand, twirling her quickly. As she spins back into him, a little dizzily, he drags her closer, his lips brushing her ear. “You weren’t looking so uncomfortable earlier.”

“Maybe because my _partner_ wasn’t jumping down my throat.”

“No, he definitely wasn’t.” _Is he actually… jealous?_ Darcy is no longer sure that a jealous Loki is what she needs right now.

“Why do you have to be like this?”

“Like what?” His tone is clipped, and Darcy sighs. _So we’re getting into_ this _._

“So… distant. Untouchable.” His muscles flex slightly as he takes a step backward, and Darcy regrets her choice of words. _Yeah, Darce, you’re touching him right now. A lot._ She blushes as she realizes that her hand has slipped from his shoulder onto his chest. She pulls back a little. _Not the time._

“Oh?” Loki murmurs.

“You’re- you’re basically that smart kid in class who doesn’t think anyone else is on his level.”

“The teacher’s pet?” His lips curl.

“Please. You’re the opposite: that kid who sits in the corner and tells jokes – doesn’t seem to take anything seriously, but always gets 98% on math tests without studying.”

“So I gain a false sense of superiority?”

“No. Well, a sense of superiority, yes, but it’s entirely warranted. You’re the smartest guy in the room without even trying.” _Great, now you’re just stroking his ego._ “Well, I mean, except when Tony and Bruce show up, and then you have to one-up them.” Loki is looking at her with a new calculating look – Darcy isn’t quite sure she likes it, but she finds that she can’t stop now. “So you retreat to your little happy place in the library, because you’re above all the puny mortals and idiotic quibbling gods. And when they mock you, you make yourself a mask, and get really good at wearing it. Get really good at lying.”

His eyes are hardened now, blank again. _Seriously, Lewis? This is your idea of how to get him to like you?_

“Perhaps, darling, it’s much simpler than that: the only consistency in life is that we are all liars. Some of us are just better at it than others.”

“Or maybe the consistency you believe in is that everyone is bound to betray you, so you don’t even give people a chance.”

“Are you calling me a cynic?” Loki’s hand is tightening around Darcy’s, and it’s starting to hurt. “A compulsive liar? Your personality is founded on a falsehood: a misplaced sense of worldliness.” _So I’m unsophisticated?_ “You’re practically a child. Poor, _innocent_ Darcy Lewis, playing at being experienced. Knowledgeable.”

He loosens his grip, only slightly, and quickly spins them around, making Darcy stumble into him.

“You’re Midgard’s _virgin_ sacrifice,” Loki purrs, drawing out the dreaded word. The ‘V’ word. The one that hasn’t been associated with Darcy Lewis since her freshman year in college, when she discovered the perfect defence: cracking dirty jokes and mastering the art of innuendo.

“How do you-”

Too late, Darcy realizes her mistake, and she flushes.

It’s not that it would ordinarily bother her; it hasn’t for years. But now, as stupid as it sounds, it’s becoming relevant again: her sex life is going to be one big dry spell with a small blip… the wedding night. Not that she’s the blushing bride, by any means, but the idea of being with _Loki_ makes her nervous. (And, okay, the rumours that he’s been with a horse make the really irrational part of her mind go into hyper drive.)

“Oh dear, are you embarrassed?” Loki’s tone expresses anything but regret. “My sweetling, they do say that all’s fair in love and war. And after your little stunt…I know what you’re trying to do, Miss Lewis, and it won’t work. Besides, our _dashing_ Fandral tends to prefer a woman with more expertise, shall we say.”

“What, precisely, am I trying to do?” Darcy digs her finger nails into his hand. Hard. “If you think that you’re in danger of being seduced, get a hold of yourself. The thought couldn’t be further from my mind.” _Well, that isn’t entirely true, but it’s close enough._

“Seduced?” Loki trails a cool breath over her cheek, grinning when she shivers. “I doubt that I’m the one who’s in danger.”

With that, he steps away and bows to her, the final chords of the piece fading away, replaced with chatter. _Well two can play at_ that _game._ _Time for a taste of your own medicine._

Darcy curtsies, delicately lifting her skirt and keeping her eyes trained on the floor.

As Loki begins to turn away, Darcy taps him on the shoulder. As he swivels to look back at her, she grabs him by the collar, and pulls him down for a long, wet kiss.

She steps back quickly, and grins when she sees him falter a little, catching himself leaning forward.

“You were saying?”

“Miss Lewis, you are going to regret that…”

\--

_I bet that you look good on the dance floor_  
 _I don't know if you're looking for romance or..._  
 _Don't know what you're looking for_


	8. Under Pressure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ermmm... I don't even know what to say. This chapter kinda ran away from me. I just needed to give Darcy a chance to unload. Loki's being ambiguous as per usual.

“It was not precisely a lie, though. She _meant_ it, I’m certain. But then why would she pull away?”

Loki brushes the tips of his long fingers over his lips pensively as he murmurs to himself, much to the chagrin of a more focused Thor.

Darcy finds herself slipping behind a stone column, really regretting that move as soon as she realizes just how squished she is between the wall and the pillar. _This is what happens when we start ‘following the sound of the voices’ instead of going to bed like a good little Midgardian diplomat._ She leans forward, letting her feet take a break from carrying all her weight in 5-inch heels for the past four hours. _Please don’t turn around, please-_

“Brother, I’m _trying_ to talk to you,” Thor grumbles. Darcy can feel the familiar sensation of butterflies in her stomach, her nervousness bubbling up as Thor moves closer to her hiding place; she tries to make herself even smaller, imagining that she’s playing a game of hide-and-seek, like she did in kindergarten. “You leave for Midgard tomorr-”

“Darling, are you spying?” Darcy almost jumps at the familiar voice, a voice that belongs to someone she can currently see talking to Thor on the opposite side of the hallway. She winces as she feels the form of that very same, very solid Norse god directly behind her, the cold metal of his chest plate digging into her bare back.

Her stomach has stopped fluttering; instead, it’s filling with snakes that wind and writhe nauseatingly.

“Aren’t you… over there?” she whispers roughly, wishing with all her might that she could just disappear, and not have to explain why she’s eavesdropping. Her chest feels tight, and she can hear her heartbeat pounding in her ears. Honestly, she hadn’t even intended to overhear the two of them, but once she had started listening, she saw too late that there wasn’t really any way to exit unnoticed, and she had been forced into her current cramped position (made worse by Loki’s presence).

He is the last person she wants to see right now, and his arrival breaks a peaceful (well, not that peaceful) 3-hour streak of successfully avoiding him following the ‘Dancing with Danger’ Incident. Now, however, Darcy is – literally – stuck between a rock (if you count a pillar as a rock) and a hard place… a hard place which just happens to be the god she has been trying to evade.

Thor grabs the double’s arm, and Darcy notes with interest that it seems just as real as the god behind her. “You cannot continue treating your fiancé in this manner.”

“I am already being forced to marry her,” Loki Number Two growls, shaking off Thor’s hand. “What more do you expect from me?”

“The visit to Midgard _must_ go smoothly, for all our sakes. I need your assurances that it will.”

“You worry that I won’t be able to win over those fools?” _Dickwad._

Darcy clenches her trembling fists and squints, feigning indifference. She distracts herself by trying – to no avail – to make out any differences between Loki and the double she sees before her. Nothing should surprise her at this point, but Darcy would almost be impressed by the trick if she weren’t feeling so uncharitable at the moment. Loki laughs quietly at her still obvious wonder.He wraps an arm around Darcy’s waist, his hand digging into her hip as he drags her further behind the pillar.

“A simple illusion. Child’s play, really.” She’s about to tell him exactly where he can shove his fricking child’s play when Loki claps his free hand over her mouth. Darcy glares forward – _if only he could see the stink-eye aimed at him right now_ – but she remains silent as she hears Thor’s footsteps coming closer.

 “Fools? We owe them our _gratitude_. It is thanks to them that we still have peace.”

“Like a declaration of war would mean anything, coming from them,” the double snarks back. He sounds like a sulky 10-year-old. A particularly articulate one, mind you. _Ignore him, Lewis. Remember what Tasha said._

“It would mean _everything_ ,” Thor thunders. “This wedding is not about peace just with Midgard; it is about how we stand with all nine realms!” _Like I didn’t need any more pressure. Thanks._

Considering it is the night of her engagement party, you would think that Darcy would have gotten used to the frequent references to her upcoming nuptials by now, but each new reminder makes it harder, not easier, to consider her future. She swallows hard.

 “The Midgardians are weak, and their trust, meaningless.” Loki’s voice fires back. _Please just be lying. Please._

“You are to _marry_ a Midgardian. You need to convince the world of your commitment to her and to the alliance it represents.”

“I don’t believe I’ve ever hidden my aversion to that prospect.” Despite the relative frequency of these insults, they still manage to pierce Darcy’s thick skin. _It’s just an act_ , she reassures herself. _Not like you’re any less averse, Darce._

 “Lady Darcy is a good woman,” Thor replies sombrely.

“I never-” Darcy strains forward, trying to hear Loki’s response, but Thor cuts him off.

“She is noble and steadfast, and she has agreed to this marriage for the good of the many, _despite_ her numerous misgivings, which you have done nothing to assuage… though I’m sure that you have added to them. You needn’t make this any harder on her than it already is.” _Damn right._ Darcy feels a rush of love for Thor surging in her chest, and she nearly smiles at the protective big-brother-ness in his tone, feeling her anxiety abate for a moment.

“If you harm her in any way, you will face my wrath, and the wrath of all the Avengers.”

Loki shifts uncomfortably behind her, and Darcy takes advantage of his loosened grip to elbow him hard in the stomach. In the end, it probably winds up hurting her elbow more than it affects His Godliness, who doesn’t even have the decency to flinch.

 “I would never hurt her,” Loki – Loki’s double, really – responds curtly. _How romantic._ “I thank you not to lecture me, ‘brother.’” Darcy can almost hear the scowl in his voice. _Can he not for just one second be nice to Thor? It’s not like he isn’t trying._ “Goodnight.”

Thor’s shoes squeak on the tiled floor as he turns, and then stops. “There is more than one way to hurt someone, Loki. You should know that.”

Loki (the real one) tightens his grip around Darcy’s waist, but the double doesn’t answer, and Thor sighs.

“Goodnight.”

Thor’s heavy footfalls grow quieter and quieter as he slowly moves away, and Loki pulls his hand from Darcy’s mouth, though he doesn’t let go of her. She wriggles slightly, stopping when she feels his – hem – glorious purpose rising to the occasion. _Bad, Darcy. Baaad._ Loki appears to have a talent for sidetracking her train of thought. _Keep your head in the game, Agent_ , her mental Shoulder Angel/Director Fury grumpily scolds her.

Loki clears his throat, and seems suddenly all too eager to release her and regain some distance. Darcy is happy to oblige.

An uncomfortable silence stretches out between them. The quiet only makes things worse, and even the sound of their breathing becomes deafening. Finally, Darcy can’t take it any more, and she speaks up.

“So… I guess we’re going back to Earth tomorrow? You seem overjoyed.”

“Miss Lewis-”

“What? Don’t say you’re sorry. I know that you aren’t. None of this was news to me, anyway. You have no qualms about telling me how much I suck to my face: it’s not exactly surprising that you’d be just as honest to someone else.” Her hands are trembling slightly, but her voice is strong.

“Surely you understand my reluctance to rally support for an unwanted union.”

“Unwanted? _Unwanted_?” Darcy laughs, and she swears it sounds more like an insane cackle. Maybe he’s rubbing off on her. “Where did _you_ get the idea that things like choice even came into it? Hasn’t it become clear to you that life is unfair? No one asked _me_ what _I_ thought before throwing me into this mess. It was just ‘hey Darce, would you like to a) get married or b) be responsible for an interplanetary war?’ Do you think that was easy for me? I’ve had to drop everything. Maybe things like building up a career and buying a cute little New York apartment don’t sound all that appealing to you, but there is something nice about being the normal one.”

Darcy realizes that somewhere along the way, her voice had crescendoed to a shout. Loki doesn’t say anything as she rants at him, venting everything she’s been wanting to say since this all started.

“ _I_ didn’t have to go off and save mankind or invent time travel. I could get weekends off, see my family, not have to worry about some new threat. Someone else would handle it. But then suddenly, boom, I’m the one who has to handle it. _I’m_ being held responsible for Asgard and Midgard’s futures. And in the stupidest way ever, too.

“It’s not like my newly discovered abilities with a Taser or my degree in Political Science are being used to ensure the survival of the universe. Nope, of course not. I just have to be a trophy wife, stuck in some godforsaken castle, to be pulled out and dusted off when I’m needed at fancy dinners. Meanwhile you- you have to sacrifice nothing. Christ, the extent of your suffering will be sharing what’s probably gonna be a larger-than-King-sized mattress.”

Her throat hurts, and it feels as though it is seizing up, trying to push her words back down before she inflicts further damage. Loki is walking closer now, and she can’t read his facial expression, but she’s certain he’s probably grinning smugly, and it makes her want to slap him straight across the face. Her life is literally a shitty game of Monopoly (if there exists a non-shitty form, she’s yet to hear of one). _Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200._  

“You still don’t get it, do you?” she says hoarsely. “Part of you probably thinks that I should be thrilled to be _graced_ with your hand in marriage. Do you really believe that I’m any more excited than you about the press conferences? The TV spots? Sitting in interviews across from people who are still terrified of you, while I have to show them that you no longer pose a threat? Like you’ve been somehow trained, or tamed? As if I’d believe that. You aren’t a goddamned puppy that had to be punished for peeing on the carpet. You _killed_. I can’t just… _forget_ what you did. But I’m being asked to convince everyone else to do just that.” _You almost did forget, though, didn’t you?_ her brain contemptuously butts in. _You almost liked him, before all this. You could have even..._

“Don’t you see that I’m trying?” she whispers, rushed, before she can get wrapped up in another wave of self-pity. Christ, she’s sick of this constant nagging feeling of doubt. “I am _trying_ to understand you. But _you_ have to make it hard on me. I can never tell if you want to kiss me or kill me, and I have no idea which sentiment is the truer one. Sometimes you seem almost nice, and I think that I _could_ lov- I could care about you. But then you have to reassert your superiority and my worthlessness, and it’s back to Loki Being a Dick just cause… well, cause that’s what you _do_.”

Her vision is getting blurry around the edges now, and she wishes she could stop and start over. Her mouth, however, has other ideas. _Full speed ahead, Lewis._  “See, I think you _like_ fucking things up. I think that you enjoy taking responsibility for what you did, and clinging to your idiotic superiority complex, because you have this weird obsession with being misunderstood. How much of what you do or say is even an act? I don’t know which answer would scare me more at this point…” Her voice cracks, and she hopes he didn’t notice (not with much hope – he’s too intuitive for that). “But at least stop _lying_ to me. I am _sick_ and _tired_ of everyone leaving me in the dark. I hate that talking to you just gets harder and harder. I hate that I can’t even _avoid_ you successfully, let alone have a normal honest-to-God conversation with you. I hate that my _hands_ have not stopped shaking for the past couple of hours. Fuck, I hate that you just keep on acting like such an arrogant... Presumptuous. Unpredictable. Condescending. Cruel. Jerky…” She isn’t sure when she closed the distance between them and started wailing on him, but Darcy punctuates each word with a punch against his leather-clad chest. She can already feel the bruises forming on her knuckles, but she is past caring. “Dickish. Lying. _Asshole_.”

Her cheeks are wet, and her chest is starting to feel tight. It’s almost like a pressure is building under her rib cage, a pressure that needs to be released before it destroys her. Her fists continue to beat weakly against him. “I hate you,” she mutters. “I hate youIhateyouIhateyou-”

“Miss Lewis.” Her breaths are coming more rapidly, and her head hurts.

“Darcy.”

_I can’t breathe._

“ _Darcy_.”

Loki tugs her sharply into his arms.

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

 _For what?_ she’s about to ask, but then she registers the familiar golden glow of seiðr and everything goes dark.


	9. Good Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Darcy and Loki go anime, and the author regrets nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In classic Loki fashion, you're gonna have to wait a little for the real fall-out from Darcy's lecture last chapter. Here! Have something hopefully sorta cute? *scurries and hides behind a rock*  
> Many thanks for the kudos/comments :)

Darcy sighs quietly as she burrows deeper under the sheets, trying to ignore the bright ray of sunshine threatening to flood the whole room with light. Her eyelids are heavy, and she blinks blearily, putting up a rather limp effort to delay the inevitable.

“Gimme five minutes,” she mumbles, burying her face in her pillow to block out the sunlight’s unwelcome intrusion on her nappy times. Sometime in the night, she had kicked off her covers before retreating to a fetal position, and Darcy now lies with her left leg strewn over a pillow, her arms tightly hugging it (like a koala, her mother used to joke, back when she had to get Darcy up for school).

The sudden sound of water running in the bathroom next door, however, renders the attempt to fall back asleep futile, and Darcy half opens her eyes, resisting the urge to go flush the toilet while the shower is going, just so that Jane, too, can appreciate the pain of cruel morning awakenings. She rejects this plan, however, on the principle that Jane’s retribution would be scary (not to mention the fact that the Toilet Flush is _so_ done-before).

In the end, perhaps Darcy should have prepared herself for her own truly cruel awakening, as with a sudden flash of panic, Darcy recognizes that her bedding is a solid emerald green rather than a cheesy red, white and blue Captain America print. _Oh right. You’re still in Asswipe-gard. Almost forgot for a minute there._

And then – because if misery loves company, then misfortune _adores_ it (and it definitely adores Darcy Lewis) – Darcy’s ‘pillow’ moves. _Oh… oh dear._ In retrospect, it had really been much too stiff to be a pillow, but a sleepy Darcy isn’t usually focused on the little details.

“Good morning, Miss Lewis.”

Darcy sucks in her cheeks, not deigning to give Loki the satisfaction of an answer. She can feel his chest rumbling as he laughs quietly. In classic Darcy Lewis fashion, the first thing to cross her mind is how unfair it is that Loki manages to sound so thoroughly pulled-together despite having just woken up (she hopes, at least – being observed drooling in her sleep by the Norse God of Mischief is not exactly on her bucket list).

The _second_ thing (it’s a close second) is the question of why exactly Loki is _here_. _In her bed_.

Darcy blushes to the roots of her hair as she struggles belatedly to extricate her limbs from their fierce hold on him in as subtle a manner possible, trying not to think about how her foot may or may not have accidentally grazed his dickishness.

“So shy?” Loki asks, grinning smugly. He rolls over with inhuman speed – _Duh, Lewis, he’s_ not _human_ \- so that Darcy finds herself flat on her back with the Norse God of Mischief between her thighs. (A situation that, honestly, she wouldn’t necessarily object to on any other occasion.) “You weren’t quite as reserved earlier.”

“Why exactly are you here?” Darcy asks snappishly, ignoring the feeling of the smooth planes of his chest under a dark green linen shirt.

“Darling, after I sent you to sleep, and returned you to your room, I wasn’t prepared for your assault. I found myself trapped.” _Ever the victim._

“Like you couldn’t magick yourself out of my bed and into your own.”

“Well, I _could_ have. Wouldn’t have been nearly as pleasant, though.”

“You’re unbelievable. Lemme get up.”

“Not until we’ve talked.”

Darcy freezes. She’s not ready to talk to him right now. Especially not about what happened after the ball.

“No.”

“Darc-” Loki stops himself.

“You called me Darcy,” she says, a mixture of surprise and accusation in her tone. She – vaguely, of course – recalls him calling her by her name last night, too.

“I- My apologies, I ought to have asked permission, Miss Lewis,” Loki says stiffly. _Back to formalities, I see_.

 

“Damn straight. No point pretending that you actually care.” She would cross her arms if she could, but six feet and two inches of Godliness is pretty heavy, and Darcy’s hands are currently hard at work curling uselessly in the fabric of his tunic.

“You’ve made it quite obvious that _you_ don’t care already,” Loki coolly replies. She swallows thickly at the reminder of her outburst. “I realize that this marriage is an unwelcome imposition, Miss Lewis, and I take no particular joy in treating it as legitimate, but it is our duty to do so.”

 _“You need to convince the world of your commitment to her and to the alliance it represents.” “I don’t believe I’ve ever hidden my aversion to that prospect,”_ Loki’s voice echoes in her head. _“Surely you understand my reluctance to rally support for an unwanted union.”_

 _“_ You _don’t care_ ,” her brain repeats derisively. _But what about you, Loki? Do-_ could _you?_ Darcy quickly tamps down her brain’s attempt at drawing connections. Clearly she’s still sleep-deprived. _Let’s… save the wishful thinking for later, Brain. Not that I’d wish that or anyth-_

Loki is looking at her oddly, and Darcy spits out an answer, too late. “Right. Good. Just… just so we’re clear.”

 _Gotta stop awkwardly spacing out, Darce._ She flushes pink at the realization that she’s been staring directly into Loki’s eyes for the duration of what felt like several minutes, and Darcy curses her skin for betraying her. Despite his paper-white complexion, Loki’s face doesn’t reveal the slightest emotion. Darcy looks away. It feels like everything in her field of vision is just Loki. He’s too close, she’s too warm.

“You were lying, you know,” Loki says abruptly.

“Lying?”

“When you claimed to hate me.”

“I’m sorry, what?” In no way does Darcy’s voice crack at that moment. “‘ _Claimed_ ’?”

Loki wets his lips, smirking slightly, and she wonders whether shifting her focus away from his eyes was really a good solution, since she now finds herself momentarily distracted by his damned prettiness.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a terrible liar?”

“I dunno, maybe the big ol’ God of Lies is just suffering from performance issues. I hear it happens to even the best of us.” It’s a weak save, but it’ll have to do.

“Don’t tempt me, darling,” he replies. Darcy shivers, and a faint smirk darkens his face. _Intuitive bastard._ “Keep mocking me, and I may end up having something to prove.”

His green eyes track the frantic movement of her blue ones. A sudden knocking sound makes both sets of eyes flit to the door.

Alana, presumably here to wake Darcy up. _Saved by the bell._

“Don’t you dare let her see you-” Darcy begins, but the glow of seiðr is already fading, and her bed mate has disappeared, though she can still feel his arms caging her in.

“Miss Darcy?” Alana whispers softly, pushing the door open gently. “Prince Thor and Lady Foster have invited you to break your fast with them.”

“Oh, Alana! Thank you,” Darcy says, willing Alana to just leave as soon and as quickly as possible. “I’ll be ready in a couple of minutes.” She awkwardly tilts her head and smiles, hoping that she doesn’t bump into the Norse God who is most definitely not supposed to be in her bed, on top of her, right now.

Alana shoots her a thinly veiled look of concern, before retreating behind the door and closing it once more. Darcy listens cautiously for the sound of the servant’s footsteps.

“She’s gone,” Loki grumbles. Darcy starts, almost getting whiplash from how quickly she looks back to her once more visible guest.

“Look, you really need to get out of here.” Darcy pushes ineffectually against his shoulders. He rolls his eyes, but moves back so that she can finally sit up, grabbing the edge of a sheet to cover herself. Her clothes are present, but just barely. Loki appears to have enchanted her ( _he better just have enchanted or he is about to lose his Godly purpose_ ) back into the last sleepwear he saw her in: an Abbey Road T-shirt. And nothing else. _Might be worth investing in proper PJ’s, Darce._

“We need to have this conversation sooner or later, Miss Lewis.”

Playing dumb is unlikely to work with Loki, so Darcy doesn’t even try.

“How about later?”

“Very well.” Loki doesn’t budge an inch, staying seated on the edge of the bed.

“ _Later_ later.”

Loki still remains seated, smirking as Darcy gets up and walks around the other side of the mattress to tug on his sleeve. Seeing that she doesn’t exactly stand any chance of getting him to leave of anything other than his own volition, Darcy quickly abandons her Sisyphean demonstration of lack of upper arm strength in favour of preparing for her return trip to Earth.

Grabbing the neatly folded pile of _real clothes_ that she had arrived in (before being rushed away and into a flowy blue dress, as though Asgardians couldn’t handle the nature of a simple jeans and T-shirt combo), Darcy slips behind the changing screen. She changes out of her Beatles T-shirt and into her underwear lightning-fast, trying not to think about her proximity to someone capable of turning invisible and also probably seeing through supposedly solid materials. _Oh come on, Loki isn’t nearly that pathetic._ Although she has to wonder when he last got any… _Looking like that, I’m sure he could’ve hooked up with some morally ambiguous elf without too much difficulty._ The thought sends a twinge of jealousy through her, and Darcy discards the notion immediately. _Anyway, the elves hate him._

“We journey back to Midgard today,” Loki says, his voice muffled by cotton as Darcy tugs her T-shirt over her head.

He seems like he’s testing the waters, which would be understandable considering Darcy’s reaction the last time they started a real conversation.

“We do indeed,” she replies, pulling her skinny jeans over her ankles. _And here’s where the real challenge begins._ After a series of lunges alternating with high jumps (a procedure that looks more like an obscure mating ritual that David Attenborough should be narrating, and less like the act of getting into a pair of pants), Darcy is finally dressed.

Not even bothering with the mess on her head, she re-emerges from behind the screen. Loki clears his throat, and she looks awkwardly at her bare feet ( _Gotta find socks – and where are your Converse?_ ).

“I-”

Loki looks up at her, and Darcy regrets speaking at all. His focus is always predatory, fixed determinedly on whatever single thing catches his attention. Darcy wills him to look away.

“I need to go get breakfast,” she finishes lamely. He nods, his eyebrows furrowed in thought. “C’mon, lazybones.” Pulling him forward by the arm, Darcy drags him to the door, opening it carefully and looking both ways before shoving him into the hallway.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” he murmurs, his feline gaze clapping itself onto her once more, before he’s pressing her up against the doorframe, lifting her up effortlessly by the arms and kissing her hard on the lips.

“What the-”

Darcy exhales as he pulls back. All the breath leaves her lungs at the sight of two familiar silhouettes walking toward her. _But the hall was clear…_

Loki cuts off her train of thought with another stolen kiss, smiling against her lips. Darcy has half a mind to slap him (the other half of her mind may or may not want to kiss him again; the vote isn’t yet in).

“Payback for your little stunt yesterday,” Loki whispers. _Slap him. Definitely._ “I told you that you’d regret it.” The shit-eating grin on his face reminds Darcy of the Cheshire cat, and before she can tell him off, Loki has disappeared, leaving her to deal with a confused Thor and Jane alone. The vanishing act seems to be a new habit of his.

(His smile disappears with the rest of him.)

\--

_Your name isn't Rio, but I don't care for sand  
_ _and lighting the fuse might result in a bang b-b-bang-go_

 


	10. Earth to Darcy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Darcy and Mr. Grump return to Earth, our heroine doesn’t want to think about what happened last night, and Dr. Foster isn’t letting her off that easy. Also known as: the return of girl talk.

Only moments after landing on Earth, Darcy finds herself once again pressed up against Grumpykins. First the Vomit-Inducing Rainbow Bridge of Pain and Suffering, and now this. _Don’t let me throw up right now. Or if I do, please let it be on him, the unflustered jerky jerk._

“Miss Lewis, if you would be so kind as to allow me-”

Darcy pulls back, remembering too late that, unfortunately, she had been the artist of her own misfortune, having thrown herself into _someone_ ’s arms as soon as she realized just how quickly they were hurtling toward the ground. That someone being Loki, apparently. _Well done, Lewis._ To be fair, the prospect of being a Darcy pancake put ‘saving face’ further down on her list of priorities, but she now finds herself blushing bright red for the umpteenth time today.

“Sorry,” Darcy mumbles reflexively. Her head is spinning, and she plonks down on the concrete, holding her head between her knees. “I guess you could call it payback,” she tells the laces of her Converse.

Loki laughs.

“Darling, allow me.”

She hears the familiar rustle of his leather pants as he crouches in front of her, and she chooses to ignore him and his damnably gorgeous… everything, which is now encroaching on her view of the pavement, impeding her attempts to get the ground to take a chill pill and slow down.

“Miss Lewis.”

She knows it’s childish, but embarrassment is only made worse when you have a Norse God taking firsthand notes on what weaklings these mortals be or whatever, so she doesn’t answer.

Darcy is certain that he rolls his eyes (though she doesn’t lift her head up to check, thankyouverymuch), and then his hands are on hers, smoothly hoisting her back up to standing. Darcy mentally prepares herself for the moment when he’ll let go and she’ll fall flat on her face, but instead Loki keeps her hands in his, and she jolts at the sudden warmth of his seiðr.

“Better?” Loki asks smugly.

It’s so typical. There are no _May I_ ’s or _Excuse me_ ’s with Loki. It’s all sarcastic _Darling_ ’s and the occasional small kindness that he’ll play off as another trick. Darcy imagines him dressed as a street magician, top hat and all. _‘Oh ho ho, you’re so foolish! I’ve fixed your headache, and you didn’t even expect it. I’m so devious.’_

“Darcy!” Jane yells, and Darcy snaps out of it.

“Coming!”

Street magician Loki twirls his moustache and Darcy feels a smile threatening to turn up the corners of her mouth. A hasty mental slideshow of Loki’s other uses for his magic quickly puts a stop to that.

“Thank you,” Darcy says grudgingly, tugging a little at her hands, still held in his.

Loki’s cheeks turn slightly pink ( _ha!_ ) when he looks down at his hands, as if he’s surprised to see them there. He pulls back and bows briskly before walking over to where Jane and Thor already stand at the street corner, waiting with an ever-composed Pepper Potts holding a clipboard. _Pepper?_

The familiar ‘Stark Tower’ sign glows high up above, and Darcy gapes a little as she takes in the familiar glass building, gleaming in the sunlight.

“Hey! Pepper!”

Pepper accepts Darcy’s attack hug with trademark grace. Darcy has always had a certain affinity for the redhead. Maybe due to their shared relative normalcy. (Though Pepper does have multitasking down to an art. Practically a superpower – in Darcy’s eyes, at least.) Or maybe it’s Pepper’s ability to be just as frightening as Tasha, for completely different reasons. _If one person on the planet could make Director Fury cower…_

“Darcy,” Pepper says smoothly. “How are things?” The lack of specificity is uncharacteristic, but Loki – that is, the World-taker-over, Psychopathic, Betrothed-to-Darcy _Loki_ – does just happen to be standing barely a meter away. Darcy responds with an equally vague ‘Okay,’ and Pepper gives her an understanding smile, one that promises they’ll be talking later. She flips through the schedule in her hands, back to business.

“I’ve arranged several interviews for you two over the coming weeks. But when you aren’t in an interview, act as close as possible whenever in public. Paparazzi will be everywhere.” To her credit, Pepper’s voice doesn’t even tremble as she addresses Mr. Kneel and Cower Before Me. “Darce, I know you haven’t been on Earth for the past week, but be warned: the arrangement has taken the media by storm.”

Darcy winces.

“How bad is it?”

Pepper sighs and gives Darcy the I’ll-give-you-the-lowdown-once-the-Supers-are-gone look. “Don’t worry. An experienced publicist will be setting guidelines-”

Loki interrupts. “Who, precisely?”

“Me, actually.” Pepper’s tone brooks no argument. “As I was saying-” Even Loki has the decency to look cowed at the subtle jab. _Guess us Earthlings aren’t so weak anymore, Loki._ His jaw clenches, and Darcy has the decency to look embarrassed (though she doesn’t have quite enough not to snicker just loudly enough for him to hear her). “- I will be setting guidelines for how to act in front of the camera, and some basic rules for generating a positive public opinion. Now, to start off with, let’s get inside Stark Tower, and out of sight. You need to go prepare for tonight’s party. Tony insisted on throwing it, and you know what that means…”

“Wait. Party?”

Pepper’s Louboutins click on the tiled floor as she pushes through the revolving door, and she reaches up to answer a call on her Bluetooth.

“What party?” Darcy repeats, but Jane is already dragging her toward the elevator.

“Hurry up, Darce!”

The metal doors shut with a _ping_.

“Jane, it’s 1:00. Why do we even need to get ready now?”

“I figured that you needed a break,” Jane says, pressing the button for the 91st floor.

“What about my stuff? Where…” Darcy stops, feeling stupid. _Of course. The official envoy of Earth can’t exactly be living in a crummy New York City apartment._

“We’ll be living in Stark Tower now,” Jane confirms as the elevator doors open onto a sleek hallway. The newly designed tower is all white walls and clean lines, more an experiment in modern aesthetics than a home.

Jane stops them in front of a large metal door, and passes Darcy the swipe card for her room, which she then runs through the reader.

“ _Welcome, Madam Lewis, Doctor Foster_ ,” JARVIS greets them, the door swinging open.

“Beloved, how nice to see you.” Darcy jumps backwards, nearly knocking Jane over in the process. Loki doesn’t look like he finds anything nice about the situation at all as he reclines on the black leather couch, flipping through a worn book.

“I’m sorry, I must have gotten the room number wrong.” Even as she says it, Darcy knows that there is no way she could have gotten the room wrong, not with Tony’s OCD when it comes to the precision of his tech, not with JARVIS monitoring everything. _Goddammit._ “And is that my copy of Pride and Prejudice? _Loki!_ ” He disappears with a smirk, taking the book with him.

“Since when am I sharing a room with Loki?” Darcy blurts out the moment she’s pulled Jane into the bedroom and made sure that the door is tightly shut. _It’s not like we’re a real couple, Christ._

She throws herself onto the mattress, which bounces gently as Jane takes a seat beside her. It’s beginning to feel like this is just one really long road trip, with hotel room after hotel room, and concierges who keep messing up – if you can call arranging a marriage without her  knowledge ‘messing up’ (and also under the jurisdiction of a concierge). _So the metaphor isn’t perfect._

One wall of her room is just a pane of blue-ish glass, and Darcy makes a mental note to talk to JARVIS about blinds.

“You’ll both be getting separate bedrooms, Darce.” Darcy’s no doubt eloquent response is muffled by a pillow, and Jane pats her on the shoulder. “Is it really that big a deal?”

“A ninety-three-floor building, and I’m stuck in the one room he’s already in,” Darcy moans, flipping onto her back.

“Ninety-three floors equals ninety-three floors worth of employees who might be curious about the new couple,” Jane shoots back. “You and Loki need to look as close as possible if we want a trusting public. ‘Arranged marriage’ doesn’t tend to make people feel that much more at ease, not in this century.”

“‘We’? Jane, you sound like someone from S.H.I.E.L.D. or something.” It’s almost an accusation.

“I sound like someone who _cares_ about you, Darcy,” Jane answers. “Besides, why would you worry about sharing with Loki? I don’t want to pry, but… something happened last night, right?”

Darcy had been holding onto the hope that Jane would forget about what she happened to witness this morning, but it looks like Jane’s not going to let her off the hook that easy.

“Darce?”

“We didn’t…” She blushes. “I know what it looked like, Jane, but-”

“Wait, what do you mean?” Jane doesn’t look disbelieving, exactly, but she seems out of her depth, like she would rather retreat to a physics textbook than investigate the intricacies of why Loki was in Darcy’s bedroom this morning.

 _Now, after months of coaching her in male/female interaction, you’re telling her to dismiss what you taught her? Come on, Darce. This is probably the worst case of betrayal_ – Darcy sighs at her own penchant for exaggeration – _betrayal Jane’s experienced since her chemistry teacher told her class that the Bohr-Rutherford model of the atom was incorrect and it was time to forget four years’ worth of science education._ Darcy hadn’t had a fun time in high school chem class. _Just explain-_

“We didn’t bump uglies, and aren’t gonna anytime soon, that’s what,” Darcy clarifies. _Well, that’s one way to do it._

Jane turns predictably pink, before going into full-on analytical mode. (She pulls her hair back into a ponytail and everything.)

Darcy shifts uncomfortably on her back, side-eyeing Jane carefully as she pretends to stare up nonchalantly at the ceiling. Loki would have seen through the act in a second, but Jane is lost in thought, and lacks a surveillance system of exact replicas of herself. ( _Seriously, narcissistic much? Though I suppose those doubles could be put to good use… Jesus, Lewis, you need to get some action, stat. You’re getting pathetic_.)

“I believe you,” Jane says finally, after a long pause. “I mean, looking past my initial observations, the idea of you – someone who professedly _hates_ Loki – suddenly sleeping with the guy didn’t seem too likely.” _Hate might be a strong word. No, not a strong word at all. Shut up, brain._ Darcy stills at the thought. _Shit. Am I going soft?_

“ _But_ if you think I haven’t noticed that _somethin_ g’s going on, you’re sadly mistaken, Agent Lewis,” Jane adds in a tone that is _much_ too similar to Director Fury to be comfortable. _Does he give classes in scaring the shit out of people? Could I sign up?_

“I know I’m not always quick on the uptake when it comes to this kind of thing, but Darce, there’s some obvious tension between you two. Now spill!”

A knock on the outside door nearly makes Darcy fall off the mattress.

“ _The Black Widow wants to see you_ ,” JARVIS informs them.

“Let her in, Jabba,” Darcy responds, and the front door clicks.

“ _I resent the implications that I am your jailor and that I am an overweight extraterrestrial being, Madam Lewis. If I had a corporeal form-_ ”

“Jesus, Stark spent way too much time programming that thing,” Tasha says, walking into Darcy’s bedroom and taking a seat on the bed, beside Jane. “So. Are you going to tell us what happened last night?”

“Is there some kind of conspiracy here that I wasn’t aware of?” Darcy grumbles, awkwardly shuffling up the bed on her elbows until she’s in a half-seated position. _They probably mastered telekinesis while you were busy waltzing with Poopface._ The insult is one of Darcy’s weakest in a while (and she’s hit a bit of a low point in general recently), but she decides to allow it, passing it off as a nostalgic reference to her level of sass mastery circa grade six.

“It’s called ‘girl talk,’ and I’m not leaving until you’ve given me a satisfactory answer to the question we are all dying to ask,” Tasha says. Knowing all too well about Natasha’s level of experience interrogating prisoners, Darcy gives in without a fight.

“What’s the question ‘we’re all dying to ask’?”

Jane grabs a spare pillow and throws it at Darcy. Her aim is usually terrible, but at such close range, it would be impossible to miss, and Darcy groans as the cushion hits her right in the side. _Today is_ really _not my day._

“What’s going on with you and Loki?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special shout-out to marshmallowdeviant, lokilover69, SisseNisse, and sakura_blossom62 (and anyone else whose been following this story) for the motivation!


	11. Pride and Parties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Princes, Pride & Prejudice, and periods...

“You didn’t sleep with him. That much is obvious.” Tasha says it with total certainty, shaking her hair out of its bun as she leans back against the headboard. The red curls tumble over her shoulders, and Darcy finds herself gaping at the live Garnier ad across from her.

“How could you tell?” Jane asks, probably eager to take notes – or maybe the question is just for Darcy’s benefit. She’s beginning to seriously believe that there is some kind of conspiracy afoot.

“The tension between the two of them is ridiculous. And it seems even more noticeable than it did on the night of the ball. I saw them from the Tower, and they were busy sneaking glances when the other wasn’t looking.”

Jane giggles, and whispers something about acting like high school freshmen. Darcy bites her tongue, stopping herself from commenting on how Little Miss Smarty-pants acted when her brick shithouse of a boyfriend went away. _Anyway, your situation is nothing like that at all. I mean, you don’t even_ care _about your own piece of Norse hotness.  Right, Lewis?_

“He’s clearly interested. Last night was evidence enough – did you see his face when she was dancing with Fandral?”

“Guys…” Darcy mumbles awkwardly.

“What about his reaction to that kiss?” Jane adds. “Or how he kissed you this morning? And the hand-holding?”

 _Why does it all sound so condemning when you list it like that?_ The little voice in her head tries to pipe in, but Darcy quickly defends herself.

“I was dizzy and confused,” she protests, though she can feel her cheeks flush, which is about as much confirmation as anyone needs at this point.

“You were blushing,” Tasha corrects.

“You _are_ blushing!” Jane exclaims, which only serves to make Darcy’s cheeks burn more fiercely. “Come on, Darce. What happened after the ball?”

Darcy stills. _What, Lewis? Don’t remember? Here’s the CliffsNotes: you gave a very undiplomatic rant, which ended with you calling him a ‘dickish asshole.’ Except with a whole load of extra adjectives. You meant it, though. Didn’t you?_

“Darce?”

 _‘Sometimes you seem almost nice, and I think that I_ could _lov-’_

“Do- do you _like_ him?” Darcy thinks back to the ninth grade, to covert questions asked in locker rooms and abandoned stairwells, choruses of giggles when it finally came up: do you _like_ him or do you _like_ like him? ‘Like’ is too vague a word, she thinks. _It’s too simplistic. And things with Loki are never simple._

“Who sounds like a freshman now, Jane?” Her tone is duller than she intended, and Jane looks worried.

 _‘_ _You were lying, you know… when you claimed to hate me.’_

“Is something wrong?”

Darcy’s throat is growing tight, and her words feel like they’re jumbling together on her tongue, struggling to rearrange themselves into something coherent. _Yes_ , she wants to say. _Yes, something is wrong. Loki was right: I don’t exactly hate him. And I despise him for it._

“No, nothing’s wrong.” The story rolls off of her tongue effortlessly. “Tasha’s plan worked, as I should have known. Loki acted cold but he couldn’t hide his jealousy of Fandral and acted cold but possessive, I ended up drinking too much mead, he had to help me to my room, and then I fell asleep on him. There was just some usual semi-flirty banter. Nothing happened.”

The lie leaves a bitter taste in her mouth, and Darcy wonders how Loki manages to tell so many with such ease. _Maybe you get used to the taste. Maybe you grow to_ like _the bitterness._

“I didn’t see you drink any mead,” Tasha says bluntly. Darcy pretends that she didn’t hear.

“Why was he still in your room the next morning?” Jane presses.

“I don’t know, okay? The details are a little fuzzy.” That much, at least, is true enough.

Tasha opens her mouth to speak, and Darcy cuts her off.

“Can we not talk about it anymore? I’m pretty sure we’re failing the Bechtel test, guys.”

“But-” Jane says, more quietly.

“It was just one dance. Did you think Mr. God of Mischief and Psychopathy and I would suddenly discover that we’re perfect for each other and decide that everything is all sunshine and rainbows?” Darcy asks roughly, her voice echoing loudly in the little room. _Using sarcasm to push away the people you care about, Lewis? Real original. Remind you of anyone?_

“When did you forget that he tried to _enslave_ our _planet_? That he _killed people_?” _Like you don’t catch yourself forgetting a little more every day, Lewis. Was your rant yesterday just you taking out your anger on someone you love? Shut UP, Brain. I don’t love Loki._ “I _can’t_ love Loki, Jane. I can’t. And he sure as hell-”

“ _Prince Loki has returned,_ ” JARVIS interrupts. _“His High Highness also refused to use the_ door _, and he refuses to respond to either Prince Laufeyson or Prince Odinson. I wasn’t programmed for this_.”

Darcy can hear the hum of Loki’s deep voice as he says something to the computer, and she makes out the faint strains of a familiar waltz beginning to play.

_And he sure as hell won’t ever love me._

“Don’t love him, or can’t love him?” Tasha probes.

“Don’t… Can’t… What difference does it make?” Darcy replies, quieter now. The distinction is important, she knows, but her answer already hangs in the air, the ‘ _can’t_ ’ still echoing in her ears. “Shit,” she mumbles. “I’m sorry, guys. I don’t mean to be like this.”

“It’s okay,” Jane whispers, recognizing a genuine Darcy Lewis apology when she sees one. Tasha looks almost hesitant now, though she hides it well, and Darcy wonders if something inside her has broken, if some emotional dam has been flooded. She doesn’t think she could be more obvious if she had a big ‘FRAGILE’ stamped on her forehead. ‘MUDDLED ON ACCOUNT OF LOKI.’ ‘HANDLE WITH CARE.’

Tasha nods, subtly jerking her head in the direction of the door. Darcy can hear Loki pacing outside her room, and she stands up, hoping to the Gods that he wasn’t listening in. “I need to go retrieve my copy of _Pride & Prejudice_ from a certain someone,” she announces, clearing her throat. She closes the door firmly behind her, steeling herself for another ‘conversation’ with her aforementioned fiancé. _These things never go well._

“Miss Lewis.”

“Give me back my book,” Darcy says in her not-taking-your-bullshit voice. It’s the tone she normally reserves for assholes who talk to her boobs and people who butt her in line, but her quota for niceness is going disregarded as of today.

Loki just smirks, and starts walking toward her in that commanding way he has, his shoulders set and his stride almost casual, as if he is completely in control. It’s a Stuttgart walk, a predatory movement that ought to scare her, and not make her feel like the room has gotten much, much warmer.

“What- what did you think of it?” Darcy asks as he places the book in her hands.

“The kind of drivel that subdues the masses with pretty notions about love.” She feels practically grateful for Loki’s ability to act just dickish enough to permit her sass function to reboot, even if the rest of her is distracted by his general attractiveness.

“You know, half the time, you sound like someone satirically impersonating you. Do you honestly believe half the shit you say?”

“In this case, yes. The entire story is… ridiculous.” It might be silly, but Darcy has the urge to jump to the book’s defence.

“It’s romantic!”

“Of course. The Midgardian dream: servant and gentleman, united against all odds,” Loki says contemptuously, and Darcy glares up at him.

“Servant? They’re equals. Mr. Darcy is a gentleman, Elizabeth is a gentleman’s daughter.”

He scoffs.

“A gentleman’s daughter? To what end? She has nothing to her name, no property, no wealth to be collected upon her marriage or her father’s eventual death.”

“What about her intelligence? When does anyone else manage to hold their own in a conversation with him?” Darcy counters.

“Intelligence? She is a little fool. They can never be on equal ground in any respect. She possesses wit, perhaps, but she lacks wisdom.”

“Like he has that so abundantly. He’s as foolish as she is. Do you really think her so inferior to him, that he can’t fall in love with her?” Darcy wonders if they’re really talking about Jane Austen anymore. Loki is stepping closer, and she sidesteps, moving further away until the backs of her knees hit the edge of the couch.

“Fall in love? No. But I object to the idea that they would marry. And that she would refuse him the first time he proposes, when he is offering her the best proposal she will ever face, is preposterous.”

 “She has integrity! She knows that she could not love him as he is. They have to grow for each other, and change.”

“Ah yes, the erroneous belief that people can change for love.”

“You don’t believe that to be true?”

“Character cannot alter itself so drastically,” Loki growls. His feet brush hers, and Darcy wishes she could edge a little further away. _Seriously, dude. Personal space. It’s a thing._

“Maybe you’re just afraid of the sacrifice that kind of change would require,” she stutters out, gasping as Loki leans even closer, one of his knees bending and edging between her legs. Loki pushes his weight forward, and Darcy finds herself finally falling backwards onto the couch, Loki’s forearms landing on either side of her. His entire body is tense, and Darcy is reminded of just how easily he could kill her if he wanted to.

“A monster dies the same way it is born: a _monster_ ,” he whispers menacingly, his breath hot against her cheek. _It. Not he. It._

“Loki, you’re not-”

“Do not presume to understand me,” he snarls. “ _Mortal_.”

“Stop fucking _pushing_ me away!” Darcy shouts, sick of Loki’s bullshit. She tugs at the collar of his shirt, not letting him get back up and retreat like he always does, disappearing every time things get complicated. “Look, not everyone is out to get you! I’m not inferior just cause I’m mortal. You aren’t a monster just because you’re skin is fucking _blu_ -”

 “Darce?!” Jane’s voice interrupts suddenly. She sounds out of breath. “We heard… raised voices-”

“It’s… we’re fine,” Darcy mutters over Loki’s shoulder, loosening her grip. He vanishes with a parting glare, and Darcy sits up slowly, not meeting Jane’s eyes. _Why does everything between us always end like this?_

A cold voice echoes in her head. _You are a fool, Darcy Lewis. Your reassurances mean nothing to me._

Tasha walks over.

“You okay?”

Darcy nods, recognizing that despite all their talk, Jane and Tasha don’t trust Loki. (Not that Tasha really trusts anyone.)

“Seriously, I’m fine.” _He wouldn’t hurt me._ She doesn’t know how she can be so sure, but Darcy has faith in him. “We should go get ready.”

Once Jane and Tasha are satisfied that nothing happened, Darcy retreats to the bathroom with the outfit Pepper has already set aside for her, sighing as she finally registers the familiar dull ache she’s been feeling all day and the sticky wetness between her legs. _Shit_.

She grabs a pad from a shelf in the cabinet, and quickly changes, wishing she could flush away the irony smell that seems to linger. She slips on her black dress easily, silently thanking Pepper for choosing something more modest. Unlike the form-clinging, flowy fabrics of Asgard, the material is stiff and structured, and the skirt poofs out at the waist. ( _Pretty sure you wouldn’t be able to suck in your stomach all night, Lewis. Period bloating hits even the best of us._ )

Darcy forgoes heels, opting instead for a pair of comfortable black flats. Then, with a swipe of red lipstick, a touch of mascara, and a quick brush of her hair, she’s ready to go.

The party is loud, all swaying bodies and bright lights, and a sound system that makes the floor shake. Loki is already the centre of attention, dancing in a way that seems almost… carefree. He’s traded in his trademark leather for a white shirt and dark pants that hug his ass in a way that is, totally objectively, hot enough to be breaking several state laws. Tony watches Loki in amazement as he starts doing the robot at the centre of the dance floor, and Darcy feels a desire to remind everyone that while her fiancé may be a little crazy (a little meaning World-Takeover level), he’s also the God of Mischief. _Figures that he’s good at dancing. He was probably present when the robot was invented. Maybe he even started it._

 _It isn’t fair, really, that he could get along with everyone so well if he just tried._ Loki catches Darcy looking at him and smirks. The heat of the room is getting to her (okay, maybe it’s not _solely_ due to the claustrophobic nature of hundreds of people jumping up and down on a glow-y floor that almost rivals the Rainbow Bridge), and Darcy finishes greeting each member of the Avengers before slipping away into a small – and mercifully empty – cocktail room.

A bottle of what she’s pretty sure is port (she’s past caring at this point) stands unopened on the bar (Darcy remedies the situation with a corkscrew obtained from one of the drawers under the counter), and she pours herself a glass, taking a long sip as she sinks into a cushiony red armchair.

 _Well, Lewis, what have you done now?_ Darcy takes another sip of the port, letting the liquid rest on her tongue until the sweetness has faded and the alcohol burns a little.

“Darcy?”

She almost spills her drink at the sudden intrusion, turning her head toward the door and doing a double-take when she realizes who it is.

“Bruce?”

\--

_I said I bet that you look good on the dance floor_  
 _Dancing to electro-pop like a robot from 1984_  
 _Well, from 1984!_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the kudos and comments!!! My apologies if this is a little cliffhanger-y, but I wanted to get this chapter out before the end of the weekend. Happy reading :)


	12. 20/20 Hindsight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Banner knows what's up, and Darce gets a break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if there are any mistakes - I'm going away for the weekend, so I wanted to get this out before then! Enjoy, my darlings :)

“I’m not that kind of doctor.”

“I know.”

It’s how all of their conversations start. Darcy never fights him on it; it’s Bruce’s way of not making any promises, of not guaranteeing that he’ll be of any help. It’s him excusing his own quietness, though the truth is, sometimes she needs someone to talk to who won’t jump in with some easy fix, someone who will listen and just agree that, some days, everything sucks. And that’s okay. Sometimes she likes the quiet. ( _Yeah, sure, Lewis. If by ‘quiet’ you mean the sound of your own voice_ , her brain comments – unhelpfully, she might add. _It’s not like I don’t have enough to deal with; do I really need to sass myself, too?_ )

Bruce takes a seat on the loveseat across from her, shaking his head when she offers him a glass of port. Shrugging, Darcy downs it – a very worried Dr. Banner asks if she’s okay, but honestly, she feels _great_ now – and she sinks deeper into her chair. The two relax to the muffled sound of house music, still audible despite the thick walls of the little cocktail room.

Bruce’s very presence is calming. It might seem a bit weird, feeling so safe talking to someone who could at any second turn into a huge, green rage-monster. But being friends with the Avengers has skewed Darcy’s perception of these kinds of things.

“What if…” Her voice breaks the (relative) silence, cracking awkwardly as she realizes that once she says it, she can’t take it back. “What if I maybe, possibly – this is all hypothetical, of course – were starting to feel… things for a certain someone.”

“Well, Darcy, let’s not get too caught-up in the specifics,” Bruce says dryly. He has an ability to be both the nicest and the most sarcastic person Darcy knows (with the exception of Snarkykins –the ‘nice’ part, of course, decidedly does _not_ apply in that unfortunate case). With Bruce, his sense of humour tends to go unnoticed (just like him, in a way). Not that the others don’t appreciate him, but unless he’s engaging in some banter with Tony – he has made Dr. Banner his pet project since discovering just how much they could accomplish if they teamed up – Bruce tends to be a bit of a wallflower. “ _What_ are you theoretically feeling?”

“Is hatred an emotion?” Darcy asks, and Bruce laughs quietly.

“I don’t doubt that he can be quite a handful.” _More like several handfuls. One handful only applies if you’re the Hulk. Which… Bruce is. Christ, you’ve had too much to drink, Lewis._ Darcy takes another gulp of port. _Inner monologue be damned._

“’A handful’ is one term for it.” _I prefer ‘dickhead,’ but that’s just me._

“How _is_ our dear friend doing? Still Freudian?” It figures that Dr. Bruce Banner would be able to refer to Loki, Destructor of Worlds, so breezily. Clint and Steve aren’t good at hiding their apprehension, and Tasha… well, no one really knows what she’s thinking most of the time. Even Tony, despite his playboy (well, recovering playboy) demeanour, seems a little scared of Loki. _Probably because he isn’t a problem that can be recoded; he’s impossible to predict. He has to break the pattern the moment you think you’ve figured one out. Just to spite you._

“Honestly, his dislike of Odin is the only part of him that I can even make sense of. One second he’s kissing me, and the next he’s pushing me away, reminding me of what a pathetic little mortal I am. I can never tell what he’s thinking.” _I mean, it does come with the title, what with him being God of Lies and all. But still. It isn’t fair._ Darcy feels like stomping a foot, maybe throwing a toddler-style full-out temper tantrum. _Already did that, Darce. You better apologize to Tasha and Jane. Properly. And to Loki… well, save that one for later._

Bruce nods, waiting for her to take another sip of her drink and continue to vent.

“I get that he doesn’t want this marriage, but I didn’t exactly ask for it! And if he isn’t interested – which he isn’t – why does he act so possessive? Is he just so competitive that he can’t stand the sight of me dancing with Fandral? I mean, seriously. I don’t belong to him, or anyone. And it’s not like he’d _want_ to have me, if he could. He manages to insult me even under the guise of a literary discussion about Pride and Prejudice, and underhandedly referred to me as, I quote, ‘a little fool, who has wit, perhaps, but lacks wisdom.’ How am I even supposed to react to that?”

“Have you… talked to him?” Bruce asks, after waiting a couple seconds to double-check that Darcy is done.

“If by ‘talking’ you mean ‘telling him I hate him, along with detailed explanations why,’ then yes.”

Darcy blushes as an after-thought, realizing how bad that sounds.

“How did he react?”

Darcy pauses, a heavy feeling settling deep inside her.

“He… he apologized,” she mumbles, something that may or may not be akin to realization dawning at the fact that Loki – Mr. ‘I’m a strong and independent Frost Giant who don’t need no dad’ – said sorry.

Bruce looks up. _Shit. Out with it, Lewis._ She says the rest hurriedly, hoping that Bruce will somehow miss the important information if she mutters it quickly and quietly enough.

“Then he hugged me and put me in bed, and we slept together-” Bruce’s eyebrows are so far up on his forehead that Darcy is pretty sure they’re receding into his hairline. “ _Not that way!_ ”

Bruce doesn’t stop giving Darcy That Look until she’s fully spilled the beans about Meanie Beanie and his behaviour since she woke up this morning. (She does skim over the parts that involve being flat on her back under said Norse God, though she mentally catalogues them, her cheeks burning hotly as she notices how quickly they’ve been tallying up.)

Darcy’s throat is a little dry as she settles back into her seat, draining her glass of the little liquid that still remains, and she watches Bruce nervously, waiting for the response that she is getting so sick of hearing. A condescending ‘So, what you’re saying is,’ or some such phrase, a combination of words that is obligatorily followed by a list of Telltale Signs That He Likes You (© Seventeen Magazine, 2014) _._ Darcy can already imagine Jane working it out in her head. ‘He finds opportunities to kiss or touch you, he uses his magic to help you with headaches or hangovers, and he flirts with you almost constantly.’ A final conclusion doesn’t even need to be stated, the lines already drawn with some handpicked evidence. _How does everyone manage to convince themselves that Loki could be that easy to read? Because they want him to be relatable? Predictable? How hu-_ Darcy bites her lip at the thought that crosses her mind. _How human._

The pause stretches out like a yawning cat, and Darcy fears another, even worse, response. One that will hurt the most. The disbelieving ‘Do- do you _like_ him?’

Bruce clears his throat, and Darcy tenses.

“I can’t speak for how Loki feels – I doubt anyone can – but Darcy, why is the way _you_ feel dictated by what you perceive him to think about you? If you love him…” Bruce trails off. “Shit did that make any sense?” he mutters.

“I don’t-”

“Hatred is not absolute. There would be no shame in caring about him at the same time,” Bruce murmurs, his voice gentle. “Never apologize for loving someone.” There is a hurt in his tone, and Darcy feels like at that moment, something small inside of her breaks and then puts itself back together again, but better, ragged edges fitting against each other more correctly than before.

“Thank you.”

The door creaks, bringing with it a sudden flood of loud pop music, and this moment, whatever it is, is broken. Pepper closes the door, brushing her slightly tousled hair out of her eyes.

“Darce, I’m sorry to do this to you, but there are reporters here, and-”

“It’s cool,” Darcy replies, getting out of her seat and setting the port back on the counter where it belongs. “Time to look coupley.”

The flashing lights are an assault on her eyes, though Darcy immediately singles out Loki.

“Don’t worry, I got this,” she reassures Pepper, biting back a smirk as she notices Tony trying to sneak up behind his girlfriend.

 _Time to think_ loudly _, Lewis._ Hoping that it will work, she bites her lip, and raises the volume of her mental voice to ‘child whose mother is somewhere else in the supermarket.’ _HEY!  JERKFACE._

Loki’s eyes flit to hers, and Darcy smirks to herself. _There are some reporters looking. Get your princely ass over here, honey bunny._

‘Honey Bunny’ smirks darkly, and nods at her as he continues to dance.

Her message sent, Darcy turns to Pepper (and away from a certain boogying princely ass), and they exchange idle small talk (punctuated by a giggly ‘Tony!’ when Stark makes his move), though both women look over to the dance floor every so often. As one song fades into another, Loki smoothly makes his way through the throng of people (not very difficult, as they all manage to make room for Scary Space Alien Dude) and walks over to the corner where Darcy now stands. He simply wraps an arm over Darcy’s shoulder and plants an offhanded kiss on her forehead, joining in on her conversation effortlessly. Loki’s behaviour is so casually possessive that Darcy lets herself fall into the game of make-believe with ease.

“Where did you learn to dance like that?” she asks as the music quietens down, aggressively pop-y hits replaced with a final jazz song. A slow dance. If this were an 8th grade dance, Darcy would be excited right now, waiting in anticipation for a cute boy to come over. Today, though, she is content to stand and watch as Tony and Pepper walk out onto the dance floor.

“A compliment?” Loki grins.

Darcy bats her eyelashes faux-innocently, her head tilted at an awkward angle so that she can actually talk to him; she’s guessing that the look on her face is a toss-up between sultry 1940s lounge singer and Bugs Bunny impersonating one, though she’s really hoping for the former. “Flattery will get you… everywhere, Miss Lewis.” Loki amps up the smoothness of his voice to panty-dropping levels, and Darcy curses her cheeks for betraying her yet again.

“Good to know, lover boy.” Darcy winces at her last words, a sudden attack of cramps – _It sounds like a Sci-Fi Horror flick! Thanks, Brain: that makes this so much easier_ – hitting her as she tries to remain impassive. Loki notices, of course.

He always notices.

 _Please don’t say anything, please-_ Darcy freezes as Loki’s hand slides down from her shoulder to the small of her back, turning her to face him. Then, taking her hand, he tugs her closer until Darcy’s head rests on his chest, her other hand gripping his arm. His seiðr is warm through the fabric of her dress, and she lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding as she becomes aware of the new _lack_ of pain.

They stand like that for a while, swaying back and forth without a word.

“What? No snarky line today? No commentary on my puny mortal-ness?” Darcy asks at last, uncomfortable with how at ease she feels in his arms.

“No more venom tonight,” Loki murmurs. His voice is soft enough that Darcy almost thinks she imagined it. _Why do you have to be so nice sometimes?_

“I’m sorry,” she whispers back, hiding her face in his white shirt. She thinks she can hear the sound of cameras flashing, but she just closes her eyes.

_Please don’t be lying._

“It’s fine, sweetling,” he answers. She sighs at another warm jolt of seiðr, his magic’s soft glow making red and yellow spark behind her eyelids. When she blinks her eyes open, she finds herself back in her bedroom.

The shower in the bathroom next-door is already running.

 


	13. Backwards and Forwards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Featuring: me being insecure about my writing abilities, an awkward TV interview, a late-night encounter, a Shakespearean-style aside (cause I thought you should get to see inside Loki’s head… tell me what you think in the comments!), and Darcy being rad as heck – as always.

2 a.m. The time when things start to go bump in the dark, and the mere sound of a door creaking becomes impossibly loud, refusing to be ignored even through a fortress of pillows and blankets. Were it not for the shred of dignity that she still obstinately clings to, Darcy would call for JARVIS, just to have someone (…something) to talk to, but finding reassurance in a piece of Stark-designed technology would be setting a new low that she isn’t ready to hit quite yet. Besides, JARVIS would probably respond by asking her if she wants a night-light. _Creating artificial intelligence that sasses you: classic Tony._

Deciding that her current situation would not, at any rate, be exacerbated by a cup of tea, Darcy prepares herself for the trek to the kitchenette, half-sliding off her bed as she struggles to hang onto the duvet-cocoon that she has rolled herself into. Shuffling awkwardly, Darcy makes her way toward the door.

 _“We’ve tried to advise the interviewers about what questions are allowed, but remember that no matter what, you need to stay diplomatic and calm, okay?” That final comment was directed at Loki, who had been glowering at the floor as Pepper gave her lecture on interview etiquette._ Better take notes, Lewis. Diplomatic, adj. Defined as ‘not glaring murderously at the interviewer.’ _Darcy risked a sideways glance at Loki, but he was now perfecting the art of sitting creepily still and exuding an aura of ‘I don’t give a single fuck, puny mortals.’_

Darcy tries not to shiver at the eerie shadows being cast by the blinds that she insisted upon after realizing that one entire wall of her bedroom was just a pane of glass (the historical moment that Tony discovered his ‘design sensibility’ is one that Darcy could have done without).

Stark Tower is a lonely place at night; the sleek designs transform into a blurry jumble of greys – a combination of her myopia and the long shadows cast by Darcy the Slow-Moving Human Burrito. _Lewis, if Loki could see you right now, he would have enough material for weeks’ worth of merciless teasing._ The thought makes Darcy stop like a deer in headlights. The usual paranoia sets in: is her breathing really that loud? Did something just move?

It’s time to put into action a technique she perfected as a high school student who didn’t always meet curfew: the Lewis Lurk (patent pending). _Seriously, Darce, we’ve gotta work on the name._

Unmoving, Darcy listens closely for any indication that her oh-so-lovely roommate is awake. She tenses at a sudden squeaking sound, letting out a sigh as she tilts her head and sees that it’s just the door to her bedroom slowly swinging forward. _Coast’s clear, Agent._ Darcy waits another thirty seconds before continuing forward, keeping on the balls of her feet.

_(“And, we’re live in 5… 4…”) “Remember,” Pepper whispered. “Just smile for the camera and be yourself. You can do this.” (“2…”) “What about Loki?” Darcy asked, biting her lip. Pepper pulled her in for a hug, enduring the winces from the Hair & Makeup team calmly. (“1…”) “Good luck, Darcy.” She stepped back as a harried-looking assistant rushed up to Darcy and adjusted her microphone. He shot a nervous glance at Loki, and, deciding not to risk it, hurried away in a jerky half speed-walk, half run._

Her toes curl at the sudden chill of ceramic floor tiles – _You made it!_ – and Darcy holds one hand out (the other still clutching her duvet) to steady herself against the wall. She narrowly misses a collision with a stool, and she winces at the squeak it makes as she nudges the whitish grey shape out of the way with her foot. As her eyes adjust to the darkness, Darcy starts to give the wall a thorough patdown, reaching for the spot near the cabinet where she could have sworn there was a light-switch. _No, not there, over a little, closer to the fridge, just a little further-_

“Miss Lewis?”

Darcy’s shriek sends her propelling backwards, her feet sliding uselessly as her duvet falls from her shoulders and gets caught on one of her heels. The lights switch on just in time for Darcy to experience the full shame of making the none-too-graceful transition from standing to… not standing.

_“Welcoming Lady Darcy Lewis and Prince Loki Laufeyson to our studio!” The audience applauded, though Darcy’s ears managed to pick out a few people muttered quietly. Like she needed the reminder of how important it was that she didn’t cock this one up. The room grew silent as Loki’s hand took its place at the small of Darcy’s back (she isn’t quite sure when that turned from something unfamiliar to a comforting gesture), and he led Darcy toward the sofa. Loki didn’t react to his title, though Darcy thought she saw his jaw clench for a moment. Maybe she was just imagining things._

Loki, to his credit, doesn’t laugh, though considering it’s all his fault, Darcy won’t be offering him any gratitude any time soon. Tonight, at least, she had the good sense to wear proper flannel pyjama bottoms, though this fact hardly lessens the blow to her pride. Her duvet _does_ lessen the blow to her behind, though. _Small blessings._

Righting herself into a seated position, Darcy tugs the sides of the deathtrap responsible for her mishap over her shoulders.

“If you require any assistance, you need only ask,” Loki suggests, and Darcy can practically _hear_ the smirk in his voice.

 “No,” she says tersely, curling her arms around herself and feigning nonchalance. “I’m fine.” _Cause it was definitely your plan to just sit on the cold tiled kitchen floor. Good one, Darce._ She can make out Loki bustling around in front of the sink, and she glares at the fuzzy outline of pyjama-clad Norse God.

 _“So, are you looking forward to the wedding? You could say you’re living the dream of every little girl who’s ever wanted to be a Disney princess!” the interviewer gushed (over-exuberantly, in Darcy’s humble opinion). Her name was something like Kelsey, or Keera, and she had the appearance of someone who was perpetually standing in front of an electric fan, her skin looking like it had been stretched too wide across her face. Her eyes never left Darcy’s, and it was only until midway through the interview that Darcy realized that the interviewer was scared. It had almost stopped crossing her mind, just how plain_ terrifying _Loki seemed to everyone else._

_“I am looking forward to it, yeah,” Darcy replied, trying to force a bubbly laugh. It sounded closer to a hyena on helium, and she quickly shut her mouth with a close-lipped smile. “Odin and Frigga have both been very welcoming. As for being a Disney princess, I don’t know about that-”_

_“A queen.”_

_The interviewer froze, saccharine grin still pasted onto her face._

_“Not a princess. A queen,” Loki repeated. It was the first time he had spoken in twenty minutes. His voice was too calm, too laidback, and Darcy placed a warning hand on his knee, shooting him a glare which she hoped the cameras would pick up as ‘the look of love.’ “Queen of Jotunheim.”_

“Tea?”

The scene would be almost frightfully domestic, were it not for Darcy’s current situation. Loki pads around her near-silently to get to the stove – _Christ, he moves like a cat_ – and with a clink, he places a kettle on the element. _If he starts whistling ‘Tiptoe through the Tulips,’ I don’t care if it breaks my fist, I will punch that pretty face of his._ Fortunately for Darcy’s hand, Loki doesn’t make any attempt to fill the silence. _A good thing, too, since that plan of yours would have involved standing up_ , Darcy’s brain snarkily reminds her.

The tiles are cold, and they’re making her toes curl. Darcy huffs grumpily, biting her tongue before she gives up and asks Loki for help.

 _He didn’t look at her once on the ride back, staring blankly out the window as Pepper gave them pointers. Unfortunately for Darcy, most of them were about ‘appearing more couple-y.’_ I’m marrying the Psychopath. That really ought to be sufficient for these people.

_When Pepper started listing ‘techniques’ (holding hands, frequent touching, casual flirting), Darcy finally cut her off. The older woman sighed and nodded, pulling out a brand new Stark phone. Her fingers flew across the surface of the touch-screen - doubtless documenting more techniques guaranteed to please Earth and ensure universal peace – but at least it left Darcy to mull over the day’s events. And not think about the fact that Loki was sitting like an idiot again, his legs wide apart enough that, despite the generous width of the limo, his thigh still ended up touching hers._

It feels like they’ve started a game where whoever speaks first, loses. She is determined not to let him win. Darcy taps her fingernails against the tiles idly, watching Loki grab a tin of tea from the cupboard. He knows his way around a kitchen better than Thor, at least. (She’s surprised that he didn’t ask for a servant to do it. That would seem to be more his style.) _Of course, the real test is whether the tea is actually drinkable._

Darcy tenses a little at the whistling sound of the water coming to a boil. A click: Loki is turning the element off and lifting up the kettle, water sizzling as a couple droplets land on the hot metal. Darcy realizes that she’s been ~~staring at~~ observing him (or, more specifically, his very blurry – but she knows, very tight – Norse ass) for the past couple of minutes, and she looks away. She sucks in her cheeks as she identifies Loki’s familiar wintery smell. A white tea mug is set down on the floor tiles beside her with a clink, and then Loki takes a seat.

“This is idiotic, Miss Lewis.” _I won_ , Darcy crows internally. The victory is short-lived as she catches Loki quirking his lips at her. Her face flushes a little as she recognizes the telltale signs of her heart speeding up at the sound of his voice. _This isn’t high school. Don’t get all worked up just cause the cute boy is talking to you, Darce._ “I had been under the impression that your kind had at least graduated beyond the stage of sitting on the floor like beasts. You mortals are so disappointing.” _What a nice, sweet boy. The perfect candidate for puppy love. Not. Get it together, Agent. This is an assignment._

“Well, that’s a shocker. You? Disappointed in me? Someone call the press.” Darcy takes a sip of tea. _Earl Grey._ She’s a little upset that he managed to pick her favourite. Under the pretence of tucking her hair behind her ear, Darcy sneaks a glance at him. Her myopia is no longer a problem, and as if to compensate for being denied a good look at Loki previously, every detail – right down to each individual eyelash – is now ridiculously in focus. “I’m not exactly new to being a disappointment; I majored in Poli Sci. You should talk to my parents.” _Although, really, I’d rather he_ never _speaks to my parents. Ever._

“Self-deprecation really doesn’t suit you,” Loki replies more softly.

“What a shame. It’s my main brand of humour.”

“One would think you would have run out of material after a while.” Darcy pauses, trying to think of a good comeback, before she realizes that it isn’t exactly an insult, per se. “Do you think so little of yourself?”

“Says the guy who habitually insults me and reminds me of my impending death. Just a little suggestion, in case you were looking for tips on basic human interaction: people don’t like being reminded that they’re mortal. It’s an uncomfortable topic. Particularly when you happen to be very capable of proving how killable they are.”

“Does it hurt you so much? Petty jabs from a disgraced war criminal who cares for no one but himself?” _No one but himself? How can you be so smart yet so blind?_

“O-of course it hurts! You push everyone away. You make it impossible for people to… be close to you.” _Especially for me._

“Miss Lewis, I do believe you once pointed out yourself that I have a propensity for – how did you put it? – fucking things up.” For a moment, Darcy is too distracted for how nice the word ‘fuck’ sounds when coming out of his mouth, but then she filters what he said. “I am no stranger to being a disappointment; however, I try not to allow others the opportunity to believe in a monster only to be let down again when it does what it was meant to do.”

“You aren’t-”

“You insist on that,” Loki interrupts. “That I am not a monster. Does it help you sleep at night? Do you tell yourself that the man whose bed you will someday warm is just that? A man?” His voice grows angrier, and in a split-second, Darcy finds herself being slammed back against the bottom cabinet, Loki’s hand around her throat. “My birthright was an early death, Darcy Lewis. My fate is to be denied even that.”

His eyes are glowing red now, and as his pale skin begins to shift to blue, Darcy curses her body’s reaction, her fear ingrained in every tense muscle and etched across her face.

“You say-” Darcy wriggles slightly, trying not to expend too much air in case a sudden urge to kill her overcomes Loki. His grip is firm, though not bruising, and she’d rather it stay that way. “You say that I will be a queen. That makes you a king.”

“King of a hated people,” Loki spits out. “Ruler over a forsaken and barren land, with subjects who will never trust me. Look me in the eyes, Darcy Lewis. You might as well bring yourself to look at me. After all, I’m only a runt. Tell me now, am I still not a monster?!” Darcy trembles at the raw anger in his voice, and his grip slackens. “Oh, I see it now. _This_ is the Allfather’s punishment: I must become that which I was raised to hate the most.” He lowers his head, and Darcy tentatively wraps her arms around him, pulling him closer. “I can never have what I desire, Darcy Lewis. That is my curse.”

“Monster or not…” Darcy growls. “You’re _clearly_ an idiot.”

Loki stiffens, and Darcy seriously wonders if she was born with any kind of survival instinct at all.

“You made me spill my tea.”

And then, Loki Laufeyson – the Feared (Attempted) Conqueror of Worlds (well, _a_ world), Son of Odin Allfather, and Prince and Soon-to-be King of Jotunheim – begins to laugh.

\--

_And your shoulders are frozen (as cold as the night)  
Oh, but you're an explosion (you're dynamite)_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final part of Cold as the Night. I've had a great time working on this, and I promise, the story isn't done just yet... the sequel will be coming out in September, but I am taking the summer off – sorry, my lovelies!!! I hope you guys enjoy this instalment, and have a great summer!!!  
> Many thanks to everyone who has liked/commented/subscribed - reviews give me life, and will help me get through this trying exam period. Much love to you all <3


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